I Saw The Light
by holly1492
Summary: Arthur saw the blazing look in his son's eyes and felt a wave of pride. Ron had become a man. He had much to learn and would doubtless make mistakes, but in its essentials, the die was cast. Ron wasn't going to do something behind his parents' back. No, Hermione was his, and a man takes care of what is his. That was that. A post-war Romione tale told in vignettes. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: Boy To Man

_**A/N -** Hello, dear readers! The structure and pacing of this story is going to be a bit of a departure for me. I intend to tell it as a series of vignettes. Imagine, if you will, that your view of each scene shrinks and fades to black at the end, the way silent movies used to do back in the day. (Filmmakers call it the "pinhole zoom," or "iris-in, iris-out." You're probably too young to remember it, but ... well ... it's the effect that was in my head when I started writing this! Google the words "pinhole zoom grolsch" and you'll find a great explainer with examples.)_

 _Anyway, the result I'm hoping for is a less plot-driven experience but rather a story told through vignettes that focus very closely on Ron & Hermione's emotional world as they piece their lives back together in the immediate aftermath of the war. I hope you like it._

 _Holly._

oooOOOooo

 **Chapter 1: Boy To Man**

"Umm, Dad?"

The unmistakable sound of his son Ron's voice, paired with the soft knock at the doorway of the shed, drew Arthur's attention away from the workbench, which had always been his haven but never more so than in these days following Fred's funeral.

Despite the grief that had threatened to consume him these few weeks since the war's end, Arthur felt his lips curl upward, amused at the note of aspiring manliness that his son's tone conveyed. He was still a boy, Ron was, but he'd matured, hadn't he — the war had seen to it. And Arthur anticipated what Ron had come there to discuss. This was man's business Ron was bringing to him. Someone his son cared for very much, felt responsible for, would even *die* for, was in pain and needed help, and Arthur knew full well that his son would do what he must to provide that help whether Arthur approved or not.

He turned to face the doorway and smiled wider still at the sight of his Ronald, illuminated from behind by the amber light streaming from the kitchen window across the lawn. Ron's hands, which once might have been thrust into his pockets in exasperation and nervousness in such a situation, were now firmly set, grasping each hip. His shoulders, which had widened considerably in the course of the war, were set straight, his chin upright. Yes, he'd come to his father with a purpose, Ron had. It occurred to Arthur that perhaps Ron was more fully a man than he'd reckoned.

"Come in, son," Arthur said gently, gesturing toward the stool across from his own by the workbench.

Ron seemed to deflate somewhat at his father's conciliatory tone, as if the battle he had been girding for might not happen after all. The right corner of Ron's mouth rose, almost in apology, as he stepped in to join his father and begin what he still expected would be an awkward conversation.

"Cheers, Dad," Ron murmured softly as he settled onto the seat. "You OK? Haven't seen you since dinner," Ron added. This tack surprised Arthur somewhat. Given Ron's earlier, nearly defiant posture, he hadn't expected an inquiry about his own state of mind.

"Oh yes, son, I'm quite all right, all things considered," Arthur replied, flicking his hand toward the half-deconstructed muggle toaster oven that had absorbed his attention until then. "Just tinkering a bit. The heating elements in these muggle roastery contraptions are right fascinating. Quite delicate things, really."

"Hmm," Ron hummed with a slight nod of agreement, fingering the disconnected wiring and pursing his lips.

After a moment, Ron straightened up and faced his father again.

"Dad, you know I'd never do anything intentionally to disrespect you and Mum or the house rules," he said firmly — perhaps a bit more firmly than he'd intended.

Arthur merely nodded in response.

Ron diverted his eyes to the cloth-covered wires again, twiddling them feebly. Arthur picked up the screwdriver he'd laid next to the toaster, studying it closely. Out the corner of his eye, he could see Ron straighten up again, and Arthur privately cheered at the sight. He heard his son draw in a deep breath.

"Hermione needs me, Dad."

Arthur returned his gaze to his son and tilted his head slightly, a silent invitation to continue.

"She can't sleep. It's … well … she's frightened. Not during the daytime, but when it's dark, mostly. She can't get through the night without breaking down, Dad, and it's gotten so that she's afraid to close her eyes. Ginny says Hermione hasn't slept at all since we returned to the Burrow — that is, not until last night."

Arthur knew this to be true. So did Molly. Since Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys had returned to the Burrow, both Molly and Arthur had heard the unmistakable sound of someone tossing and turning violently in her bed from within Ginny's room, the low murmur of girls' voices, the creak of the stairs as someone — presumably Hermione — crept down to the lounge each night in search of a book to occupy her mind in the wee hours. Arthur and Molly had discussed it, the two of them, in the privacy of their bedroom. Both of them had noticed how weary Hermione looked, how jumpy she was, how dark the circles were becoming under her eyes. It had gone on every night — that is, until last night, when the entire house was awakened by a half-deafening scream.

Arthur had quite literally fallen out of bed at the sound, pulling himself upright in time to see Molly spring through the doorway and toward Ginny's room, throwing the door open to find Hermione sprawled on the floor between the beds, her back arched awkwardly, eyes shut tight, twitching and squirming as Ginny helplessly nestled her friend's head in her lap in an attempt to soothe her.

Hermione, her face streaked with tears falling from her still-closed eyes, had gasped as Molly dropped to the floor and took Hermione's hands in her own. "Nooooooooooooo!" Hermione screamed in response at an eardrum-splitting pitch, and though Ron's bedroom is by far the farthest from Ginny's in the house, he was the next to barrel into the room, chest heaving, having flown down the stairs and vaulted onto the landing, nudging Arthur aside before the sound of Hermione's shout had stopped ringing in their ears. "Nooooo! No! No!"

"I can't wake her," Ginny choked, looking desperately to her mother, then her father, then Ron and finally Harry, George and Percy as they all crammed into the doorway. "She fell asleep a little while ago for the first time in days, thank Merlin," Ginny continued, running her hand over Hermione's hair, "but now she can't seem to wake up. She's having some sort of nightmare."

Taking Hermione's face in her hands, Molly again spoke soothingly, even as Hermione writhed in Ginny's arms. "Hermione, you're all right, darling. We're all here, sweetheart. Wake up, Hermione," she pleaded. "Wake up, dear."

"Stop!" Hermione cried, this time at a slightly lower volume, though her face was still contorted in a pained grimace. "Please, please — please stop," she moaned. "Noooooo," she continued, thrashing her head left and then right in Ginny's lap. "No!" she cried, still louder. "No, please! Please … Ron … Ron! Please!" she wailed, twisting on the floor. "Ronnnnnnn!"

In a flash, Ron dropped to his knees, eyes wide, and took his mother by the shoulders, guiding her gently but firmly aside. He reached out his arms and scooped Hermione up off the floor to cradle her in his lap, pulling her close against his chest and burying his face in her hair, not caring that nearly his entire family was watching.

"Shhhhhhh," he whispered as he began to rock her slowly in his arms, forward and then back. "Shhhhhh, Mione, I'm here. I'm here. It's all right. You're safe now. You're safe. They won't hurt you anymore, love. I'm here."

From where Arthur stood, jammed between George and the bookshelf, he could see little more than Ron's arms encircling Hermione's back, and though he chastised himself mildly for intruding on such an intimate moment, he couldn't help but be glad to see a sign, finally, that Hermione was moving of her own volition as she lifted the arm not pinned between her and Ron's chest and draped it around his shoulders, clutching him close.

"Mione," Ron had whispered again into her hair, and Hermione sobbed anew, though something about the sound of it that time told Arthur that she was, at least, awake.

Indeed, Hermione had pressed her face tightly into the crook of Ron's neck and was soon crying softly in his arms as he continued to rock her gently, back and forth. "Oh Ron," she sputtered when she could finally get her breath. "Ron," she continued, curling up more firmly against him. "I was so … oh, I'm so sorry …"

"Shh," he said, cutting her off. "None of that. You're OK now. That's all that matters."

With that, Ron shifted and somehow — Arthur wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it, because he'd never have reckoned Ron was quite strong enough — he'd stood up, with Hermione still in his arms, and turned toward the doorway. The motion had given Hermione a view of just how crowded the room was, and her face grew even redder, this time clearly in embarrassment. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, everyone," she said sheepishly. "I, did I … oh, I didn't realize …"

"Nonsense, dear," Molly had piped up as she patted Hermione on the cheek. "We're all just glad you're all right."

Hermione sniffled and nodded, but before she could say more, Ron had sidled past the crowd and through the door, carrying Hermione with him without further comment, leaving a roomful of flabbergasted Weasleys and one not-so-flabbergasted best friend in his wake.

As the boys filed out of the room and Ginny flipped back her covers to return to bed, Molly and Arthur had been left to merely gape at one another and wonder at what exactly they'd just witnessed. In defiance of every longstanding Weasley house rule, Ron had apparently just carried a *girl* up the stairs to his bedroom — in full view of his entire family — and retired for the remainder of the night. And not just any girl. *Hermione.* But more striking than that had been the intimacy of the scene that had just played out. Ron, apparently, was the only one of them who could truly help her in that moment — and, furthermore, he was the only one she wanted. In her desperation, she'd called out to him and he'd responded. And he'd responded in a way that suggested that, even if there wasn't a fully formed romantic understanding between them, there was at least a mutual affection that went much deeper than their years of friendship had previously suggested.

"She was tortured, Dad," Ron said evenly, bringing Arthur's attention back to the present as Ron's voice broke the silence that had been filled for the past few minutes only by the sound of cricketsong.

"I reckoned as much, Ronnie," Arthur said, placing the screwdriver carefully onto the bench and turning his full attention back to his son, who was sitting facing him, his hands gripping his knees. "Would you … would you care to talk about it?"

Though Ron's eyes stayed focused on his father's, Arthur could see his son's Adam's apple bob as he gulped in a deeper-than-usual breath of air. After a moment, Ron shook his head slightly. "Someday, yes, I'll tell you about it, but … not now."

"No worries," Arthur answered. "When you're ready, I'm here."

"Thanks," Ron breathed, and the silence resumed, punctuated only by the hum of the crickets.

"She's afraid to sleep," Ron continued eventually, his voice now gravelly with emotion. Arthur noticed the knuckles on Ron's hands had whitened as he gripped his knees tighter. "That is, she's afraid to sleep without *me,* I mean."

"I see."

"She tried, she really tried, to sleep in Ginny's room all these nights. I didn't know it was quite so bad. I mean, I knew she'd been having trouble, but I didn't realize she wasn't sleeping *at all.* But, I dunno," Ron continued with a shrug, "maybe she just got too used to having me and Harry around during all those nights on the hunt."

Arthur looked down at his feet and crossed them at the ankles. "I notice it wasn't Harry's name that she was crying out in her sleep."

Arthur lifted his gaze in time to see Ron stick out his lower lip and blow out a puff of breath that rustled the fringe above his brows. "Yeah, well," Ron mumbled, his eyes roving over the length of the workbench. "I reckon I make her feel safe is all."

Arthur couldn't help but smile at this. He'd seen the tender way Ron held Hermione's hand with both of his as the family sat gathered in the Great Hall immediately after the final battle. He'd seen, after dinner the next day, how Hermione laid her cheek against Ron's upper arm as they sat together on the sofa in the lounge, and how Ron had rested his cheek atop her head in response. Ron had clung to Hermione for dear life throughout most of Fred's funeral, and she'd borne up under it admirably, stroking his back rhythmically and occasionally wiping the tears from his cheeks with her palms.

"You love her, don't you," Arthur said — and Ron's eyes, which had been exploring the shelves beyond his father's head, snapped back to meet his in a flash.

Ron gulped but then nodded once. "With all I've got," he replied solemnly.

"Have you told her?"

After a brief pause, Ron nodded again. "It wasn't the right time, but yeah, I told her," he said.

"I rather think there's no such thing as a wrong time to tell someone you love them," Arthur said with a scratch of his chin. He folded his arms and once again had to suppress a mild grin at Ron's classic reaction — ears reddening, hand rising reflexively to the back of his neck, the muscles threatening to burst the sleeves of his ill-fitting T-shirt at the gesture a reminder of how much his son had grown despite this familiar posture.

"Well, maybe it wasn't the wrong time so much as, I dunno …" Ron muttered, his voice trailing off as he scanned the shelves beneath Arthur's workbench, as if searching for the right words. "I just … I didn't want her to think I was saying it … you know, declaring myself … because I felt sorry for her." Ron lifted his eyes to his father. "It was at Shell Cottage, you see."

Shell Cottage. Arthur had a faint understanding of what that meant. Bill had told him privately what state Hermione had been in when the trio arrived there that dreadful night. And Arthur had patched together other particulars from snippets of conversation since the funeral — chief among them, a detail that Harry told Molly and Arthur outright on the day of the battle: Hermione's parents were dead. Bellatrix had told Hermione so as she'd tortured her. Molly and Arthur of course comforted Hermione as best they could, and though she accepted their attentions with some grace, it was clear that the only one who could really get through to her, the only one whose company she openly sought, was Ron. Harry, it seemed, was also a welcome companion to Hermione in these painful days, as was Ginny, but the glow of contentment that occasionally came to Hermione's eyes despite her grief — that was entirely Ron's doing.

"I hope she knows I really meant it — really mean it," Ron continued.

"I'm quite certain she does, son," Arthur said softly, enjoying the look of relief that washed across Ron's face. "And I daresay she feels the same."

Ron blushed and looked down at his trainers. "That makes me the luckiest bloke on Earth, I think."

Arthur chuckled. "What a gift it is to be able to feel that way after everything we've been through," he said.

Ron smiled but then sobered, shaking his head as if to clear it and then straightening up to address his father directly again.

"So, that's what I'm getting at, Dad," he said in a newly confident tone. "I reckon it's my job to take care of Hermione now, and I think maybe I'm the only one who can. She needs a lot of things, but she needs rest first and foremost — and, for whatever reason, she needs me to be nearby so she can get that rest. So…" He paused and gulped for air before proceeding. "So, she needs to sleep with me."

Arthur was by no means stunned by Ron's declaration, nor was he inclined to oppose it. But he was an experienced enough father to know that, for Ron to truly believe he was in the right, to truly believe this breach of protocol he was arguing for was appropriate, he'd have to feel he'd made his case forcefully and completely. And so, Arthur arranged his face in what he judged to be a mildly compassionate blank — and said nothing, merely crossing his arms and nodding as if deep in thought. The chirp of crickets, meanwhile, rose to fill the silence.

"We wouldn't be doing anything inappropriate up there, Dad," Ron continued. "Things haven't gone that far between us. Even last night, all she did was collapse next to me and sleep — and she slept through the night for the first time since the battle. Harry was there, too. As long as we're beneath your roof, we'll keep to your rules — but this one has to be broken, Dad. I wouldn't say so if it wasn't so necessary, but it is," he said, rising to his feet. "I won't let Hermione suffer like this if I have the power to do something about it, and this I can do. I can be near her when she needs me. We can make other arrangements — Harry's already offered Grimmauld Place. All in all, I think it's best for everybody to be together here right now, at least for the next little while. But if you can't live with the idea of me and Hermione sleeping in the same place in your house, I'll understand — no hard feelings. We'll move on. But she will not spend another night alone and suffering. That's just not going to happen ever again."

Arthur glanced up to see the blazing look in his son's eyes and felt a wave of pride overtake him. His boy had become a man indeed. He still had much to learn and would doubtless make many more mistakes on the journey ahead of him, but in its essentials, the die was cast. He wasn't going to do something behind his parents' back. That was what a boy would do, not a man. No, he would do this on his own terms. No apologies, no explanations. Hermione was his, and he took care of what was his. That was that.

Arthur sighed and lifted his left hand to Ron's shoulder, smiling inwardly as Ron's rigid posture softened. Ron had stretched himself upright to his full height as he made his proclamation to his father, elbows bent, hands on hips, feet slightly apart. But now he eased into something like his usual easygoing stance, though there was still a hint of eagerness in his face, a hope that he'd been understood.

"I hear you, Ronnie, and I'm sure your mother will understand once I speak with her," Arthur said through a soft smile, blinking back tears. "She loves Hermione, too, you know."

Ron exhaled slowly and reached out to shake his father's hand. "Cheers, Dad," he replied. "Thanks so much."

"Now let's head back up to the house," Arthur added as he rose and reached up to clasp his arm firmly around Ron's shoulders. "I hear there's treacle tart for pudding."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— OK, so I set aside the angsty story, "A Dream Goes On Forever," thinking I can retool it — and I will! But, in the meantime, I ran across some two-year-old notes for an entirely different Romione story that I had sketched out and, frankly, forgotten about. I liked what I saw and decided to knock this one off first and then turn my attention back to "Dream."_

 _This story will be darker than some of my other stories, I think, because there's a lot of grief going on here. Fred is dead, of course, as are Dobby, Tonks, Remus … and Bellatrix has told Hermione that her parents are dead as well. So there's a fair bit of pain to sort through, and I expect this story will explore how that process affects and deepens the bond between our favorite couple._

 _I hope you enjoy … please let me know what you think. If you've read any of my other fics, you'll know that I am quite the review junkie. Favorites and follows are always welcome, but reviews are a special treat, because I get to hear what you think in your own words!  
_

 _Many thanks for reading!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._

 _P.S. — If you crave more Romione reading while you await my next update, why not check out my other fics: "All In," "One Punch: A History," and "What's Changed — And What Hasn't." Be forewarned: They're M-rated. Still, there's some good stuff in there in between the smutty bits._

 _P.P.S. — If you like my stories, I'd be honored if you'd share them with your fellow Ron & Hermione shippers. Many thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2: Awakenings

**Chapter 2: Awakenings**

Tremors and involuntary shudders had still racked Hermione's body as Ron carried her up toward his bedroom, leaving the rest of the family standing, befuddled and bemused, in Ginny's bedroom. Despite her embarrassment at having awakened the whole household with her cries of anguish — and her awareness that what Ron was doing was highly unorthodox, to say the least — Hermione didn't resist. Unable to deny the immense relief she felt at finally being in his arms, she sighed and relaxed against his chest as he climbed the stairs in the chilly, late spring darkness, pressing her face more deeply against his neck and breathing in the grassy scent of him. It was a comfort to know that he would do the thinking for her in this moment, that she no longer had to pretend she was all right to spare others the worry. He was there. He was going to take care of her. And she was going to let him.

Neither of them spoke. No words were necessary. Ron simply eased the bedroom door open with his back and strode toward his bed, laying Hermione carefully in it and watching as she budged over toward the wall to make room for him. He smiled slightly at her as he folded back the blanket and slid in to join her, tucking his right arm beneath her head and gathering her to him in a swift, firm motion. She curled herself quite naturally against his chest, gripping a handful of his T-shirt in one hand and humming contentedly as Ron settled one leg over her hip, the better to pull her closer to him. At that moment, Harry stepped in, closing the door behind him, and seated himself at the foot of Ron's bed, his face barely visible in the moonlight streaming in through the window behind him.

Harry settled a hand on Hermione's blanket-covered foot and gave it a squeeze. Hermione smiled at him sleepily. "I'm OK now, Harry," she whispered, and Harry nodded mutely, returning her smile while standing and giving Ron's shoulder a good-natured nudge. With that, he returned to his bed across the way and tucked himself back in.

Ron listened as Hermione's breathing evened out, and he was gratified to find that her trembling had ceased. She slowly grew limp in his arms and soon the fist that had gripped his T-shirt loosened and let go. She was asleep and, not only that, she appeared to be sleeping easily. She snored slightly, as if to confirm his suspicions, and he couldn't help but chuckle. Ron leaned back, studying her face for signs of distress, but none were there. She wore a look of contentment that he hadn't seen since the night after the final battle, when she'd slept in his arms within the confines of his four-poster at Hogwarts. Her brow now, as it was then, was unfurrowed and her lips curved gently in the shadow of a smile.

Gods, he loved her.

He'd told her so, of course, back at Shell Cottage. Was that only a few weeks ago? Felt like a lifetime. He'd taken to sleeping on the floor next to her bed after that first night, when she'd awakened screaming in the wee hours and he'd dashed up the stairs, his heart pounding, to find Bill, Fleur and Luna there at her bedside, trying — and failing — to calm her.

"Ronald!" Hermione, still bruised and heavily bandaged, had cried breathlessly at the sight of him in the doorway, and he came to her at once, taking both her hands in his and settling onto the side of the bed. To his surprise, she pried her hands from his and grasped him by the shoulders, pulling him down to her level and gripping him like she'd never let go. Ron sank into her at the contact, pressing his cheek against hers. Her skin was warm and wet … and so, so soft. The rest of the group, meanwhile, sidled out of the room.

"Ron, please don't leave me," she'd whispered, clutching him tighter.

"Never," he'd answered firmly before he even had a chance to think about it. "Never again." He choked on the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Please," she murmured.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing his cheek tighter against her own. "It's all right. I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere — not without you. I promise."

She'd slowly settled down at that. Her chest still rattled when she inhaled, but she seemed calmer, and her grip on his shoulders eased somewhat. Ron took that as a signal to pull back and began to, only to feel her locking her arms around him again. "Don't!" she whispered hoarsely. "Not yet."

"I'll stay right here, love, as long as you want me."

"I want you," she answered quickly. "Always."

His mind raced at her words. She wanted him — *him.* Always. Like he wanted her. He could hardly believe … and yet, she'd said it, and she was holding him close with a remarkably firm grip. He shook his head slightly against hers.

"Hermione," he whispered next to her ear, unable to find any better words than to speak her name.

"Ronald," she answered breathily, flattening her hands against his shoulder blades and rubbing his back firmly, arching herself, the better to fit against him as he leaned above her.

He shifted his head so that his nose was angled next to hers. Speaking against her lips, he whispered, "I love you, Hermione. I always have and I always will."

Thinking about it now, with the rest of the household settling back into sleep several flights below him within the cozy walls of the Burrow, Ron marveled at his incredible good fortune. Yes, they'd taken dreadful losses — the loss of Fred and Hermione's parents, Hugh and Eleanor, being the heaviest. But they'd made it. And after everything — all the fuck-ups, all the miscues — they were together, he and Hermione. They'd helped Harry accomplish his mission, and now they had a future. And he knew that nothing would keep them apart. Not now. Not ever.

He still couldn't quite fathom that Hermione loved him back, but he knew he loved her like he'd never loved anyone or anything, and the gravity of that feeling struck him anew, there in the narrow snugness of his childhood bed. This girl in his arms was parentless now. She'd been cruelly tortured and still bore the scars from it. She'd stared down death a dozen times over, and now faced an uncertain future in a wizarding world that might still shun her as a muggleborn despite the role she played in saving it. She would need protecting — though she'd deny that fact, of course. She would need healing, of body and mind — though she'd likely resist it. She would need tender loving care, and this he thought she might welcome from him. So, at that moment, he pledged himself to give her that and more. He knew he could do that much, and happily. And as for protecting her, as for seeing that she was healed … he would make damned sure those things got done, too, whether she liked it or not.

He leaned in toward her, nestling his chin amidst her curls, and savored the feeling that had come over him only once before — back at Hogwarts, when she slumbered next to him behind the curtains of his four-poster, cut off from the rest of the war-torn world. It was a feeling of warmth that Ron could swear extended several inches outward from their skin, enveloping them both in its soothing light. He sighed again at the feel of it … and wondered if she'd felt it, too.

The memory of that night at Hogwarts sparked a flutter in his chest. That night was the first time they'd snogged, *really* snogged — and they'd done so passionately, for hours it seemed. Yes, there was grief, but there was also so much to celebrate, survival being tops on the list. The realization of it, that they'd both made it, energized Ron to a point where, looking back on it, he may have let his enthusiasm run away with him a bit. But Hermione didn't seem to mind at the time. In fact, she'd matched him kiss for kiss, caress for caress.

"My love," she'd murmured next to his ear, "oh, my love," and the thought that he was that to her … her love … lit a fire in him and threatened to overtake them both.

"Gods, Mione," he breathed as he'd shifted himself atop her, her pyjama-clad body pinned beneath his. "Say that again," he pleaded as he buried his face in the hollow between her head and her shoulder and breathed in the vanilla scent of her hair. "Say that again, Mione."

Hermione sighed and circled her arms around his shoulders, pulling him even more tightly against her as she tilted her lips toward his ear.

"My love," she whispered, and then let out a faint peep of surprise when Ron responded not with words but with a groan and a gentle thrust of his hips. "Oh, my love," she repeated as she wrapped one leg and then the other around his thighs and matched his movements. The friction, even through two separate layers of flannel pyjamas, was electrifying, and they found themselves slipping over the edge, one after the other, both thankful, as they cried out one another's names, that they'd cast several strong Silencing charms before they'd climbed into his four-poster.

There in his bed at the Burrow, with the sound of Harry snoring softly in the background, the memory of his only intense snogging session with Hermione — so far, anyway — caused his face to heat up with something like embarrassment. And much as he wanted to snog Hermione again, he knew very well that such things would have to wait. There was the matter of dealing with the Weasley house rules, after all, something he'd have to clear up with his father at the first opportunity. But he also wanted to be sure that, whatever happened next, it was the right thing for Hermione. She was vulnerable as hell at the moment, though he knew she would hex his bollocks off if she heard him say so. But she was. She was grieving her parents — her *parents.* Holy buggering hell. He needed to be strong for her. And he would be.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— There's more to come, dear readers. Please review, won't you?_


	3. Chapter 3: A Daughter

**Chapter 3: A Daughter**

"The key to the crust, dear, is to be sure not to overmix it," Molly said in a soft tone that lacked its usual crisp chipperness, though there was a tenderness to it that transcended a mere lesson in the making of treacle tarts. "There, you see?" Molly continued, looking into the giant mixing bowl as Hermione stirred the dough. "It comes together quite nicely when you just sort of budge it along with your spoon."

Hermione smiled, nodded, and bent her head to her work. As she did so, Molly looked the girl over through the corner of her eye. Despite Molly's qualms about the new sleeping arrangements, it was difficult to argue with the positive effects of a week's worth of sleep on Hermione's countenance: Molly noticed that the dark, sunken circles that had formed beneath Hermione's eyes were nearly gone now, and the clear, rosy flush that had once made Hermione's complexion so enviable had returned. The mild, distant expression remained, however. Molly reckoned it would take more than sleep to undo that. Oh well, she sighed inwardly. One day at a time.

She'd been gratified that Hermione was even with her at all that morning. The girl had entered the kitchen an hour ago, clearing her throat softly to gain Molly's attention, distracted as she was by rummaging through the pantry.

"Umm, I heard that you planned to make tarts again for this evening's pudding," Hermione had said in a small voice as she twisted the fingers of her left hand in her right.

"If I can find the baking powder in this mess of a pantry, then yes, I do indeed," Molly answered. "I thought they'd go nicely with the chicken and dumplings," she added, wiping her hand on her apron as she gave up on finding the tin she was looking for and simply pulled out her wand and Accioed it.

"May I … I mean … I would love to learn how you make tarts — and your chicken and dumplings, too," Hermione stammered, "if you would teach me."

Molly hoped she succeeded in masking her surprise. Hermione had always been tremendously helpful around the Burrow, fastidiously tidying up after herself (as well as Ron and Harry), hanging laundry on the line and folding it later without being asked, weeding the herb garden, dusting the lounge, and more. In fact, Molly rather missed her help when the girl wasn't around. But she'd never asked to do this — to learn how Molly did what Molly most enjoyed doing: preparing dishes that made her family and friends feel welcome, fulfilled, content and loved. And to be asked to teach someone who valued learning as much as Hermione did — well, the full force of the compliment wasn't lost on Molly.

And so, the two of them stood together at the island in the center of the Burrow's kitchen, working quietly in the diffused light of an overcast late morning.

"Now the sugar," said Molly, Accioing a smaller mixing bowl and placing it by Hermione's right hand. "For these particular tarts, I like to use whole cane sugar if you can manage it. White sugar will do in a pinch, but I find that the larger grain stuff melts differently. It's what makes the surface of the tart so nice and crunchy."

"I'd wondered about that," Hermione said, setting her spoon down and lifting the corner of her apron to wipe her fingers. "I think that crunchy top is Ron's favorite part."

Molly knew Ron well enough to know that this was true. She smiled to herself that Hermione had noted it, as well, and she felt a warm surge of affection for the girl at the thought. This was more than a cooking lesson, obviously. Hermione wanted to know how to make things that Ron loved.

Molly shook her head, attempting to bring her mind back to the task at hand. "I'll measure out the molasses if you'll just put two cups of the sugar in this bowl," Molly said, but as she reached for the bottle and her measuring cup, she couldn't help but glance at Hermione again out the corner of her eye. The girl's hair was pulled up into a ponytail, but tendrils were escaping in the warmth of the kitchen, forcing her to blow a renegade curl away from her eyes every now and then. There was a smudge of flour on her nose and her apron, which was several sizes too big for her, was spattered with vanilla from an earlier accident with the magical mixer. Still, Molly couldn't help but be entertained by the look of concentration on Hermione's face as she measured out the sugar with all the earnest solemnity of a potions master mixing a batch of Amortentia.

This girl … this brilliant, sweet, now orphaned girl … Molly could feel it in her bones that she would one day be her daughter — not that she wasn't already, at least as far as Molly's heart was concerned. For some inexplicable reason, Molly was nearly overcome with the urge to drop the molasses bottle and pull Hermione to her chest in a bone-crushing hug at that moment, but she resisted it. It was enough that Hermione was there, eager to learn, to be distracted, to have companionship. Molly didn't want to do anything that would scare her away. There was still so much more she hoped to discuss — that is, if Hermione would allow it.

Soon it was time to stir again and then turn the dough out onto the counter to be rolled and cut, and silence resumed as each of them attended to the work before them.

"I'm not sure Ginny will be back from Luna's in time for tea, but Ron and Harry promised to be home from Kingsley's office by 4," Hermione murmured after a few minutes, snapping Molly from her private musings.

"Oh, good," Molly replied. "I expect they'll have news about when they go to St. Agnes Island for training."

"Mmm," Hermione answered absently.

"Do you … are you having second thoughts about not going with them?"

"No," Hermione said quickly. "No, not really," she repeated in a softer voice. "Being an Auror has always been Harry and Ron's dream, but not really mine."

"You would be an excellent Auror, dear," Molly replied, reaching for the biscuit cutters and handing one to Hermione. "But then, you'll be brilliant at whatever you choose to do."

Hermione smiled sadly and pressed the biscuit cutter into the dough in front of her. "They're chuffed that they're both guaranteed spots on the Corps — and they should be. It's a great honor. I mean, none of the other recruits are guaranteed a spot — everyone else's entry is conditional, depending on how they do at St. Agnes. But for Ron and Harry, their careers will begin … their futures will start … in just a few months. I don't blame them for being excited about it," she said, eyes cast downward. "It's just that … I can't seem to make myself think about any of that right now."

"I understand, sweetheart."

Hermione's eyes snapped upward to meet Molly's — the doubt, the hope for understanding, written plainly in their caramel-colored depths.

Molly nodded. "The rest of the world is starting to turn again, isn't it. People are moving on, planning, rebuilding — celebrating even. And sometimes I just want to say to everyone, 'Wait, slow down,' " she said, her voice beginning to tremble. "I'm not ready. I'm still … it still … it still hurts."

Hermione dropped her biscuit cutter and stepped toward Molly, placing a hand gingerly on her forearm before finding herself enveloped in Molly's arms, pulled tight in a warm embrace.

"It does hurt," Hermione said, blinking back tears against Molly's soft shoulder. "It hurts so much sometimes."

Molly squeezed Hermione tighter, and was pleased to feel her squeezing her back, making no effort to pull away. "It's all right, the hurting," Molly said with a sob. "It's supposed to hurt right now. That's what we owe them, isn't it — to hurt for them. But it won't be forever."

Hermione buried her face deeper into Molly's shoulder. "Are you sure?"

Molly nodded and took Hermione by the shoulders, leaning back to look her at her directly. "I have done this before, child," she said, studying Hermione's tear-stained face through a watery smile. "And yes, I'm sure. It will get better. It will. You just need to give it time. They wouldn't want you to hurt for long. When you're ready, it will be important to move on — but only when you're ready."

Hermione wiped her face with her hands, and Molly couldn't help but smile at the mess of flour and tears now smudged across the girl's cheeks.

"Ron's helping," Hermione said, blinking rapidly and sniffling.

"That's what he wants more than anything, I think — to care for you," Molly said as she raised the corner of her apron to wipe Hermione's cheeks, first one, then the other.

"I want to do the same for him," Hermione replied. "Sometimes I wonder if he thinks he needs me as much as I need him. He thinks I'm going to be Minister of Magic someday," she added with a small laugh as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. "And if I happen to want to be with him along the way," she said sheepishly, her cheeks starting to pink up, "well, he'll take what he can get."

Molly pursed her lips. Actually, she had to admit to herself that she had once very much shared this view of Hermione and her ambition. She certainly had the talent to be anything she wanted to be, this girl. The only question was what she might have the desire to do. Minister of Magic, Headmistress of Hogwarts, Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot, author, lecturer, barrister, spell inventor, diplomat, scientist … the list of possibilities for someone of her skills was virtually endless.

"It's all so backwards, don't you see?" Hermione continued, her voice warming, and Molly was gratified to glimpse a flash of the formerly animated, engaged Hermione return to the girl's face. "Ron's every bit as talented as I am, has just as bright a future ahead of him. But I'm not interested in careers and glory and accomplishments anymore — not as goals unto themselves anyway. What with the war and everything that's happened ... I guess I've realized that what matters most is the people in our lives. They come first. And yes, fine, be an Auror, be a teacher, be a Potions Master … be whatever it is you want to be … but mostly, I just want—"

Hermione stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth gaping slightly as her eyes roved across Molly's face.

"I just want him," Hermione added, and then let out a surprised squeak as Molly crushed her once again in a tight embrace.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I have always loved the possibility of a deeper connection between Molly and Hermione. It's something that goes under-explored in canon, but I suspect it's really there. They're very different people, Molly and Hermione, but then again, they really aren't. They both place a high priority on the people they care about. And they both love Ron._

 _A reviewer of Chapter 2 wondered if this story is moving backwards. It isn't — though that's an interesting idea! No, here's the thing with me and chronology: I'm not that strict about it. I have written a half-finished novel that begins with a description of the main character's death and then jumps back 50 years to the events leading up to it. So … I like using flashbacks. And I especially liked the idea of starting this particular story with Ron and Arthur and *then,* in the following chapter, giving readers a glimpse of the dramatic events that brought about that conversation. So the juxtaposition of Chapters 1 and 2 was quite intentional. I was pretty sure most Romione lovers would drool at the chance to see Ron in action at that moment — and the chance to read his thoughts. So Chapter 2 explored all that._

 _Anyway, I hope you're enjoying this thing despite my experiments with chronology and sequencing. It's dawning on me that the tone of this piece is quite different compared to my other works here. It's contemplative, somber, quiet ... and I'm surprised that I quite like it. I'm eager to know what you think._

 _There's more to come. Stay tuned._

 _In the meantime, please share your thoughts in the review section. And if you like this story, why not share it with friends?_

 _Many thanks,_

 _Holly._

 _P.S. — I should note that the title of this fic comes from a Todd Rundgren song. (As did the title of my soon-to-be-reworked fic, "A Dream Goes On Forever.")_


	4. Chapter 4: The Peak

**Chapter 4: The Peak**

"Oof!" Hermione blurted as Ron captured her elbow to save her from taking a header down a very steep incline. She'd lost her footing on a loose rock as she and Ron neared the crest and might have twisted her ankle had Ron not promptly shifted the picnic basket he was carrying to his other arm and righted her in time.

"You OK?" he inquired, setting the overloaded basket on the ground beside him and kneeling down to press his fingers to Hermione's ankle.

"I'm fine," she breathed, though she was winded. She rested her hand on Ron's shoulder to balance herself as he lifted her foot and experimentally turned it right and then left before deciding she was telling the truth and setting it down. "Honestly, Ronald — I just slipped. I'm quite all right."

"Fair enough," he replied. He stretched himself back up to his full height and hoisted the picnic basket with his right hand while extending his left hand for her to grip, which she did with both hands. "Just wanted to be sure. After all these years of promising to take you to The Peak, it wouldn't do to have you fall off it."

A few stumbling steps and another near-tumble more, and Ron and Hermione did indeed reach the summit of the rocky hill the Weasley family had always called The Peak. It was the highest point for miles, providing a striking view of the Devonshire countryside in all directions, and though it was so far from The Burrow that the ramshackle structure appeared dollhouse-size in the middle distance from that vantage point, The Peak was well within the outer ring of the Weasleys' protective wards.

Ron led Hermione to his favorite spot, a grassy knoll nestled within the rocky bluffs atop The Peak, and unfurled one of two quilts he towed along with them on this hastily organized outing. Ron had decided on the excursion at first light, upon seeing that, after a week of clouds and showers, a gloriously sunny and warm day was dawning. He'd thought fresh air and sunshine would do Hermione a world of good. Best of all, both he and Hermione were free: Hermione had no Healer's appointments that day (the only activity that had taken her away from The Burrow these past few weeks), and Ron had none of the commitments that had occupied so much of his and Harry's time. No get-togethers with Kingsley. No press interviews. No physicals. No meetings with prosecutors. The thought of this last bit had made Ron flinch a little, because he was quite aware that the Ministry's Justice Department dearly wanted Hermione's testimony, and soon, something he dreaded for her sake and had valiantly tried to delay on her behalf. But, setting all that aside for the moment, he had reminded himself that the day ahead of them looked blessedly open, and he'd taken his mother aside after breakfast to ask if he could raid the kitchen for a few essentials.

What he hadn't bargained on was for Molly to stuff the picnic basket to overflowing, but she had: There were leftover treacle tarts, bacon sandwiches, magically chilled bottles of pumpkin juice, rounds of cheese, apples, as well as an assortment of the biscuits and savories that Molly, Hermione and sometimes Ginny had baked together out of boredom during the recent stint of gloomy weather.

Ron sat atop the quilt and squinted upward into the sun to see Hermione still standing and scanning the distant prospect with a look of awe on her face. He followed her gaze first toward The Burrow, then over the little town of Ottery St. Catchpole, looking similarly toylike, just beyond, then along the winding River Otter and to the rolling hills on the horizon, arrayed in shades of green and blue and gold. Hermione's hair flickered in the sunlight, her curls dancing in the steady breeze that also caused her flowery cotton skirt to billow and sway about her knees. Ron was right: An outing seemed to be just the thing for Hermione. Her cheeks were pink, eyes bright. She'd recently been given the all-clear to remove the bandage that had covered the scar at the base of her neck, and though the mark was still visible there within the opening of the dainty blouse she wore, it had at least narrowed to a thin pink line. He felt a sudden urge to pull her to him and kiss it, but he nudged that idea aside — for now.

Though he and Hermione had been sleeping together every night for the better part of a fortnight, that was all that they had done — sleep — partly because Ron had made a promise to his father and he intended to live up to it, and partly because Ron reckoned he needed to go slow for Hermione's sake. Harry's presence in the bedroom was another impediment, of course, and at any other time, Ron would have considered this nighttime company inconvenient in the extreme. But, under the circumstances, he reckoned it was just as well.

Still … none of this meant Ron didn't crave Hermione's touch, didn't long to be near her, didn't yearn to be alone with her to show as well as tell her how he felt. Today, for better or worse, was really his first opportunity to do so.

"How high are we up here?" Hermione asked, pulling Ron back from these thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Oh, I just wondered how tall this particular hill is."

"Dunno," he said with a shrug as he kicked off his hiking boots and watched them land helter-skelter a few feet down the hill. Then he laid back, propping himself up on his elbows. "100, 200 meters, I reckon. No idea, really. Why?"

Hermione shook her head and laughed, sitting down primly on the quilt net to Ron. "Nevermind, it's silly."

"No it isn't," Ron replied. "What?"

Hermione looked down and blushed, then gathered herself in a manner that reminded him fondly of her many recitations from "Hogwarts: A History" back in the Common Room. "There's a formula, you see, for calculating the distance of the horizon," she chirped. "For an observer on the ground, the horizon is at a distance of just under five kilometers. The distance goes up exponentially from there, however, depending on how high you are. At a height of 30 meters, for instance, the horizon is almost 20 kilometers distant." Her eyes returned to the hills at the edge of their vision. "So, I reckon we can see more than, maybe, 40 kilometers from up here. Quite amazing, really."

Ron shook his head and grinned. "Yes, you are," he said.

Hermione, somewhat startled at the warmth in his voice, peeked back at him over her shoulder, then averted her gaze to her boots. She swatted at his knee playfully but was evidently charmed by his remark nonetheless, for she couldn't suppress her smile. Her cheeks reddened and she busied herself with neatly untying her boots and placing them just beyond the edge of the quilt. She then paid far more attention to the act of rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan than she might have done could she not feel the heat of Ron's admiring gaze on her.

"It's beautiful here," Hermione continued once she felt she could speak again without grinning like a nutter. "I love Devonshire."

Ron rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and reached into the basket for an apple, tossing it lightly in his hand rather than biting into it. "You don't miss Cambridge?" he asked.

Hermione turned to look at him again briefly and then returned her eyes to the horizon. "Of course, there are things I miss there," she said quietly. But then she cleared her throat and brightened somewhat, lifting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sunshine as she continued to scan the faraway hills. "There is beauty in the Cambridge countryside, to be sure. But it's a totally different landscape there. Some of it is even below sea level, believe it or not." She paused and dropped her hand to finger the hem of her skirt, studying it closely as she tucked it tightly behind her knees. "Cambridge is lovely," she continued slowly, "but, to me, it's nothing to Devon."

Ron felt his face warm by several degrees as she spoke. "It's," he started, then stopped to try to sort out his thoughts. She loved Devon. It seemed a silly thing to be moved by — what's not to like about Devon? — but he was moved nevertheless. She liked the place where he'd grown up, the place he'd loved best, where he'd always hoped to live. He dropped the apple back into the basket and reached for her hand, the one that had been fiddling with her hem, and brushed the back of it with his fingertips before wrapping it in his. She turned to face him more fully then, looking down at him as he reclined next to her, and he found his voice. "It's not the only beautiful place in the world, Devon," he managed to say past the lump in his throat as he caressed her knuckles with his thumb.

Their perspectives reversed as Hermione pivoted and lowered herself to lie on her back alongside him. He was above her then, and she marveled at the sight of him, ginger hair falling into his eyes, glinting in the sun. "Yes," she said slowly, consideringly, "but there's no place like home, is there?"

He dipped low and kissed her then, softly at first. They'd kissed, of course, many times, even in bed. There had always seemed to be reasons to hold back, however, mostly due to the lack of privacy in the overcrowded Burrow. But there were no such obstacles here, and Hermione hummed appreciatively as Ron deepened the kiss and gathered her closer to him with both arms.

"Hermione," he finally murmured, his lips pressed against her cheek, after coming up for air. "Gods, I so want you to think of this place as home." He shifted himself so that he could see her face, and smiled when he spied the teary grin that greeted him. "Didn't know quite how much I wanted it until just now, I reckon."

Hermione raised one hand to the side of Ron's face and sighed. His joyful just-won-the-House-Cup expression … the pink flush that had risen to his cheeks, mixing so sweetly with the pale auburn freckles splashed across his face … his mussed hair, sticking up in countless different directions as the wind played with it … he was utterly adorable, and she was fascinated and even a little awestruck to see that her praise of his birthplace had so clearly pleased him. Gods, she loved him. Even in the depths of her grief, he had ways of finding her and pulling her out of it, of making her feel alive and glad of it. She felt her smile widening. "Wherever you are is my home, Ronald," she whispered. "Never forget it."

Several hours later — though she couldn't swear just how many — Hermione's eyes fluttered open in smiling semi-wakefulness. She squinted skyward and judged, from the angle of the sun and the lengthening shadow cast by the lone tree that sheltered the knoll, that it must be mid-afternoon. With her ear planted against Ron's bare chest, she could hear the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, punctuated by the occasional soft snore. She shifted one leg slightly and savored the delicious feeling of Ron's skin — so, so much of it — against so much of her own. Her cheeks burned at the thought of how she had come to be in such a state of dishabille, tucked nearly starkers between two quilts, wrapped in Ronald Weasley's lanky arms. The memory of it made her want to squeal with delight, and she might have but for her wish to let Ron sleep.

He'd been so tender and so incredibly gentle, and yet he couldn't hide his need, whispering her name over and over with an intense urgency that would have melted her resistance had she the inclination to offer any. "I love you so much," he'd continued, murmuring into her ear as he slid his hand beneath her bum, the better to pin her beneath him. "Let me show you, Mione. Please. Let me show you."

And he had, and in a manner that felt somehow much more intimate than the only other time she had ever, erm, *let herself go,* in a manner of speaking, in Ron's presence. That first time, back in the privacy of Ron's Hogwarts four-poster, they'd both been carried away in the crosscurrents of need, grief, desire, joy and exhaustion, moving together until each achieved the release that had seemingly eluded them for years despite the layer of clothes between them. This time, however, there was so much more touch involved — and so much more to touch. Ron had wasted little time in ridding himself of his shirt, leaning back and tearing it off in a quick motion that left his hair in an even more irresistible state of breezy disarray than it was before. He chucked the shirt in the general direction of his boots and seemed about to leap back atop Hermione when he paused and looked at her, splayed out beneath him on the quilt.

"You're so beautiful, Hermione," he said then, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief. "Gods, what are you doing here with me?" he added, the corner of his mouth curling upward.

Hermione smiled back, slipping her hands upward and pressing them flat against his chest, which felt warm and smooth to her touch. "Waiting for you to kiss me," she answered as she slid her hands further upward to circle around his neck.

He lowered himself to her then, kissing her deeply as he unbuttoned her blouse and eventually slid his hand beneath her skirt and under the silky fabric of her knickers. She didn't have time to be nervous or even self-conscious about what happened next, because before she had a chance to think, Ron's fingers had discovered their objective, stroking her center gently at first and then more insistently until she could do little more than arch her back and cry out his name.

He wore a satisfied little grin after that, but she couldn't begrudge him his triumph — he'd undone her completely. Not long thereafter, she was down to her knickers alone, running her fingers through Ron's hair as he explored her body — pausing only to Levitate a second quilt over them when he sensed she was chilly.

Soon he guided her hand to the zip of his jeans and proceeded to teach her how to provide him the sort of pleasure he'd just given her. She'd felt his hardness through his clothing, of course — it was difficult to miss when they slept together at night — but she wasn't prepared for the magnificent sight of him: much larger and, well, thicker than she had imagined.

He'd wordlessly taken her hand and curled it around himself, demonstrating the pressure and speed needed to bring him to the edge — and, in a remarkably short time, he was there, eyes pressed shut and mouth open as a deep groan escaped his chest. Hermione was mesmerized, and not a little chuffed, that she'd brought about this response.

Afterward, as they tumbled about in one another's arms before succumbing to sleep, she'd noted to herself how gingerly he'd handled her — his strength just barely bridled, but bridled nevertheless, as if he was fighting mightily with himself to resist the urge to crush her to himself and have his way with her. She sensed he was holding back — reining something in — and she was right, at least to a degree. Ron was indeed holding something back. Something he dearly wanted her to know, a secret that he thought she might not be ready to hear. More than once, as they explored one another between the quilts, he'd had the urge to tell her, but he forced it down. It wasn't time yet, he told himself. It wasn't time yet. But soon, he hoped. Soon.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I hope you're enjoying this, my dear readers!_

 _For a little while there, I hesitated to post this chapter because I thought the outdoor setting might be too similar to the Scotland scene in Chapter 19 of "One Punch: A History," one of my other stories. But then, I have always imagined that Ron is an outdoorsman — someone who enjoys hiking and wilderness, because he was born and raised in the countryside. And so I keep having the urge to place him in such settings._

 _Finally I decided to go with it because ... what the heck._

 _Anyway, here's my usual, tiresome and shameless plea for reviews and shares. Thanks for reading!  
_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	5. Chapter 5: Alomohora

**Chapter 5: Alomohora**

"Ron, look!"

It was Harry. He'd stuck his head through the trap door in the attic ceiling, turning his head hurriedly right and then left before catching sight of Ron and Arthur poised in the midday sun on the far end of the roof, where they were using a muggle hammer and nails to patch a leak that had sprung up overnight.

Ron was so startled by Harry's sudden appearance — not to mention the note of excitement in his voice — that he nearly slipped off the steep incline. Once he regained his footing, however, he looked Harry's way and was relieved to see his friend was smiling, and widely, though he was panting for breath. He must have run up the stairs two at a time.

Harry was clutching a piece of parchment in his hand and waving it wildly over his head. He lifted himself through the trap door and crawled out onto the roof, the parchment still folded in his hand. "Look what it says, mate! Alomohora — do you see? Alomohora!"

Ron dropped his hammer and crawled upward toward Harry. "Wait," he said, stopping to consider the possibilities. He didn't want to misunderstand. "Are you sure, Harry?"

"I'm sure!" Harry thrust the parchment in Ron's direction, running his other hand through his hair as he sat and attempted to catch his breath. "It just came by Ministry owl, marked confidential for just you and me, like you and Kingsley agreed," he panted. "It's Kingsley's letterhead. Look!"

Ron scanned the parchment and, sure enough, it was there in Kingsley's writing: *Alomohora.* Could it be? Merlin's nosehairs. Ron felt his heart thump and he shook his head in disbelief as his face broke into a wide grin. If he hadn't been balanced atop the slanted roof of the Burrow, he would have jumped for joy.

"Boys, what the devil does 'Alomohora,' mean?" said Arthur. Ron had nearly forgotten his father was there, but Arthur had climbed up to join him and Harry and was now reaching for the parchment to take a closer look.

"It means … oh, blimey, where's Hermione?" Ron said.

Harry sat up straighter and looked toward Ottery St. Catchpole. "She and your mum and Ginny went to the grocers in town, and then they were going to stop and buy some fabric, I think, for Ginny's new dress robes," he said, still puffing slightly for air though his broad smile matched Ron's.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Ronald…"

"Sorry Dad, it's just — oh, good Godric — it's just, I had a feeling, but I didn't really expect…"

Ron took the parchment back from his father and looked it over again, just to be sure that this one precious word was indeed still there. "I didn't really expect to be right," Ron continued, his tone softening a bit as he noticed how baffled his father looked.

Before Ron had a chance to gather his thoughts — sweet Merlin, where should he even begin? — Harry patted him on the back and said, "I've always said you should trust your instincts more, Ron."

Harry was right, of course, and Ron nodded in acknowledgement, his ears reddening slightly. Then he turned to his father. "Dad, after Fred's—" he stopped, not wanting to use *that* word. Funeral. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. The elation Ron had felt seconds before ceased abruptly, replaced by a burning lump in his throat. He gulped and blinked hard several times, and Arthur placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as if to say, _Take your time_. Ron tried to smile and his father gave his shoulder a slight squeeze in reassurance.

"Anyway," Ron continued after another few seconds, "after the uh, the ceremony, I asked Kingsley to take a walk with me down to the pond."

"Oh yes, I remember," his father said. "I reckoned you were speaking with him about Auror Academy."

"No," Ron said, raising his hand to the back of his neck. "Well, yeah, we did talk about that later, but no, I asked him if we could talk privately because I wanted to ask him a favor. It was a pretty big one. But he didn't seem to mind."

"Of course he wouldn't," Arthur said.

Ron shrugged. "Yeah, well … I told him some stuff that I wasn't sure I should tell. Or, erm, things that really were Hermione's to tell. And I felt bad about it but—"

"Ron, you did the right thing," Harry said, cutting him off.

"Well, you can say that now," Ron said as he handed the parchment back to Harry. "I mean, we got the message we wanted. But gods, when I think how many times these past few weeks I came this close to telling her what I'd done—"

"Ronald," Arthur said with a hint of asperity in his voice, "would you mind telling *me* what you've done? I'm completely lost."

Arthur made like he was about to sit down to hear Ron's tale, but Ron took his elbow and stopped him. "Dad, I'm sorry, but we really don't have time to hang around here and talk about it. This message is urgent. The three of us need to Floo to the Ministry right now. Harry and I will explain on the way. But the main thing you need to know is, Alomohora is a code word. It means Hermione's parents are alive."

A quarter of an hour later, as the three of them tumbled out of the Ministry Floo Bank and into the Atrium, Arthur's mind was spinning. If the coded message was to be believed, Hermione's parents were alive. Alive! Arthur's heart raced at the possibility — and he was quite sure Harry and Ron felt the same, given how quickly they were both walking toward the lifts, nearly running as a matter of fact. Arthur couldn't help but be proud of his son. He'd had a gut feeling and acted on it. Apparently something about the tale Bellatrix had told Hermione at Malfoy Manor — that she and the other Death Eaters had killed her parents at their home in Cambridge — well, it just didn't add up as far as Ron was concerned. It certainly was possible, Ron had to concede, and Arthur shuddered when he thought of the wreckage he, Ron, Bill and Harry had found inside the Grangers' home when they inspected it weeks ago. Though the Death Eaters had certainly caused their share of destruction, Bill could find no sign that Unforgivables had been cast inside the house or even in the garden, no trace of that kind of dark magic.

Arthur hadn't thought much of Bill's findings at the time, reckoning that the Death Eaters must have removed Hermione's parents and dispatched with them elsewhere. But Ron … he must have been skeptical. He had also kept his doubts to himself — and eventually brought Harry in on his thinking. Arthur felt a pang at the thought that Ron hadn't come to him to discuss his theory that Bellatrix was lying merely to try to break Hermione down. But then, he reckoned the value of secrecy was something they'd learned the hard way during the war. Besides, it was clear that Ron wanted to protect Hermione, on the off chance that his hunch didn't pan out.

Instead, Ron had gone to Kingsley and asked him if the Auror Corps could be of any help in checking out Bellatrix's story. Kingsley apparently had agreed without a second thought, telling Ron that he would deploy personnel to scour Cambridge, around Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, and in and around Sydney, Australia, where Hermione had programmed her parents to go when she altered their memories. If the Grangers were found alive, Kingsley would send a confidential Owl containing a single word: Alomohora. Found dead, the code word would be Colloportus.

Kingsley's secretary had clearly been expecting them, standing immediately as soon as they appeared through the doors of the suite. "Right this way, gentlemen," she said, stepping toward the large double doors that led to the Minister's inner chambers.

"Arthur, so glad you're here," Kingsley said with a weary smile as he stepped forward to greet his friend with a hug and a manly slap on the back.

"Of course," Arthur said, "good to see you, Kingsley." Arthur pulled away and looked Kingsley over as he turned to shake Harry's hand, then Ron's. "Forgive me for saying so, Kingsley, but you look knackered."

Kingsley laughed feebly. "You're quite forgiven, Arthur. I *am* knackered. There's been so much to do — there aren't enough hours in the day." He looked searchingly past Ron and Harry momentarily. "Hermione isn't with you?"

"No, sir," Ron answered. "I thought it would be best to get the lowdown from you first, make a plan and have everything in place so we can act on it as soon as she knows."

Kingsley sighed at this, and gestured toward a group of four armchairs arranged around the hearth at the far side of the room. Ron felt his heart sink in his chest at Kingsley's expression — why did he look so lifeless? He wondered if maybe he'd bollixed up the code. He looked to Harry, who merely smiled grimly back at him and followed Kingsley toward the hearth with a shrug.

Before Ron could wonder anymore about it, they were seated, and Kingsley exhaled deeply before continuing.

"First, the good news," he said quietly, Accioing a tray of Firewhiskey from the sideboard behind him and placing it on the coffee table set amongst the armchairs. "You were right, Ron," he continued, pouring out a dram for each of them in the crystal highball glasses on the tray and passing them around. "Bellatrix was lying through her teeth. She didn't know, of course, that Hermione had taken steps to get her parents out of the country. Neither did I, for that matter, until you told me. The Grangers are indeed in Australia, just as Hermione had planned."

Kingsley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, tipping his glass of Firewhiskey gently in his hands and watching the color shift in the firelight. He dropped his head then, seeming to study the lush Oriental rug beneath their feet, only the crackle of the fire filling the awkward silence that had swelled up around them.

"I'm sorry, Minister, but—"

"Kingsley, Harry. It'll always be Kingsley to you lot, no matter what."

Harry nodded, and Kingsley finally raised his eyes to meet Harry's, but he couldn't quite look directly at Ron, and Ron noticed.

"Kingsley, if Hermione's parents are alive, that's a good thing, right?" Ron said with a slight edge to his voice. Something was wrong, and he wanted to know what is was — now.

"I'm sorry, Ron. You're right. It is indeed good that they're alive," Kingsley said after taking a sip of his whiskey. Then he straightened up and met Ron's gaze, the sadness in his dark brown eyes contrasting with the blazing look in Ron's blue ones.

"Hermione's parents are alive, gentlemen," he said, pausing to let out another deep breath. "But they're not ... they're not well."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Wink, wink, chemrunner57!_


	6. Chapter 6: Good News And Bad News

**Chapter 6: Good News And Bad News**

"Ronald, what is this all about?"

In the dim lantern light of his bedroom, Ron could plainly see the look of barely bridled panic in Hermione's eyes. Shit. He hadn't meant to frighten her, of course, but there was no hiding it — Hermione had known something was dreadfully wrong the moment she, Ginny and Molly had Apparated back from Ottery St. Catchpole and found Harry, Arthur and Ron clustered together on the front porch, their startled reaction to the women's arrival a sure sign that they were pondering something not meant to be discussed openly. When Ron took Hermione's hand and asked her to step upstairs to speak privately, she was quite certain something terrible had happened, and by the time the two of them reached his room — well, *their* room, since Harry had started bunking in Percy's room the night before — she was trembling so strongly that her hand shook despite Ron's comforting grip.

"It's all right, love — or it will be, I promise," Ron said quietly. "Sit down."

She did as he asked, perching herself on the edge of the bed, back ramrod-straight, knees pressed tightly together, while never letting go of Ron's hand.

He knelt before her and took both her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his thumbs as he searched his mind for the best way to start.

"You're scaring me, Ron," she said in a small voice, and Ron's eyes snapped to hers instantly.

"I'm so sorry, love. The last thing I want to do is scare you — ever."

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know," she replied softly, sounding calmer. Though her heart was pounding in her chest, the earnest expression on Ron's face soothed her somehow, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, hoping the gesture would spur him on.

He smiled at her simple declaration of faith, despite everything. "It's just that, I have something very important to tell you," he continued. "It's mostly good but … it's complicated."

Hermione swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. "Why don't you start at the beginning," she offered, trying her best to keep her voice level and calm.

"The beginning. Right." Ron scanned the wall behind her searchingly before settling his gaze back on her.

"Hermione," he said haltingly, pulling her hands closer to his chest. "Hermione, a few weeks ago, I spoke privately with Kingsley and told him about the memory modification that you performed on your parents."

"You…" Hermione murmured absently, her brow furrowed in confusion. "You what?" She shook her head slowly, then more forcefully, and then the meaning of Ron's words hit her fully. She gasped and yanked her hands from his grip. "Ronald! How could you tell the Minister for Magic such a thing? Don't you realize how many magical laws I violated when I cast those spells?"

"Honey, you don't have to worry about any of that," said Ron, still kneeling. He reached for Hermione's hand but missed it as she sprang to her feet and pivoted away from him. "Kingsley says there's no way the Wizengamot would prosecute you for it, Mione, and I believe him."

Hermione by then had strode angrily to the window overlooking the back meadow. She was glowering in the direction of the pond, putting the pieces together in her head. "You told him that day, didn't you? After the funeral," she said in a low tone. "Down by the pond. That's where you did it."

With a sigh, Ron raised himself to take Hermione's place on the bed and ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing in twenty different directions. "Yeah. That was it."

Hermione whirled around to face him, though she could barely see through the tears forming in her eyes. "And you let me think the two of you were discussing your Auror career," she said bitterly. "Why on Earth would you do this, Ron? How could you do something so reckless, so, so … so *stupid*!"

Ron stood then and reached out a hand to her. "Hermione, I—"

"That was very private, very personal information, Ronald, and I shared it with you and Harry in confidence!" she blurted through tears, pressing her right hand to her chest while steadying herself against the windowframe with her left. "I trusted you."

"It wasn't like that—"

"I trusted you. I trusted you and you betrayed me!"

Ron stepped forward and reached for her, and Hermione shrank backward against the window. "Now hang on," Ron said, fighting mightily to control himself. It wouldn't do to row with her — not now — though a very small part of him privately rejoiced to see a flash of the old, fiery Hermione, to know that she was still in there beneath the layers of grief. "Please, Mione. Let me explain, love."

"Don't you call me that!"

"There's more, Hermione, much more that you need to know," he continued, dropping his arm back to his side.

"No!" she shouted. "I can't — I can't believe this. I can't believe *you,*" she said, stepping sideways toward the door and yanking it open with an angry tug. "I need to leave. I need to get away from here — from you — right now. I'm going outside the wards and Apparating to Luna's. Don't try to stop me!"

"Hermione, listen to me!" Ron said sharply as she turned her back and stepped onto the landing. "Hermione, love, your parents are alive."

Ron's words hit Hermione with all the force of a well-aimed Stupefy spell. She froze in her tracks, hand still on the doorknob. Slowly, she turned to face Ron, wide-eyed and silent, and he flinched at the way the color had drained so completely from her face.

"Did you," she finally managed to sputter. "What … what did you say?"

Ron rushed forward before he could think, instinctively seeking to touch her, to re-establish some sort of connection with her before he could say more. Prying her hand gently off the doorknob, he pressed it between both of his and, stepping backwards, led her back inside the room. She was too stunned to resist, merely tracing his face with her eyes as if seeking some confirmation, some sign, that her imagination wasn't playing tricks on her.

He looked down at her and tried to arrange his face in a reassuring smile, though he wasn't sure he was successful. "I went to Kingsley because I had serious doubts about … about what you were told," he said quietly, trying desperately to avoid mentioning either Bellatrix or Malfoy Manor by name. "It didn't pass the smell test to me, love. What you were told could only be true if you had made a serious mistake with your magic and, well, I haven't survived what I've survived by doubting your magic."

She was still standing at arm's length from him, staring mutely into his face, but she seemed to be listening, which was enough to give him the courage to continue. He pressed her hand between his and pulled it to his chest, glad to see that she didn't pull back.

"I knew you had sent your parents to Australia on the same day that you came here to The Burrow, before Bill's wedding," he said, caressing her hand and then her forearm almost as if he sought to warm her from a deep chill. "I wasn't sure, mind, but I had a hunch that the story you were told was bollocks. I didn't want to say anything to you, though, because you were just so … sad … after the Final Battle, and so I decided to ask Kingsley if he would help me check out my hunch. If I was wrong then, well, no harm done. I wouldn't have set up any false hopes in your mind. But if I was right …"

Ron's voice trailed off. He slipped the hand that had been caressing her forearm down to her elbow and pulled her an inch or two closer.

"And you were right," Hermione said, so softly as to be almost inaudible, her eyes slowly roving over his face.

Ron nodded. "You saved them, Hermione. They're alive. You did it."

Hermione's eyes, which had been moving across Ron's face at a dazed pace, picked up speed, darting left, then right. Why wasn't Ron smiling, then? She felt a cold chill run through her and shuddered, so strongly that Ron felt it.

"C'mere," he whispered, leading her to the bed. They sat down next to one another and Ron pivoted to face her directly, leaning down a bit to catch her gaze. "The Australian minister is an old friend of Kingsley's. He agreed to have the Australian Auror Division track down your parents, and they eventually did. Took them a few weeks — you did a good job hiding them, that's for sure." He forced his lips into a small smile, but it didn't really take. There was still so much more to say, and none of it was good.

"The Aurors didn't find them in their home, though," Ron said, "or even at their dental practice." He gulped, glancing briefly at their joined hands before steering his eyes back to Hermione's face. "They were in something muggles call an asylum, I think," he continued. "The doctors who were taking care of your parents there told the Aurors that they were brought in sometime in late March. Apparently they had been acting strangely, and the muggle doctors didn't know how to fix it."

Hermione blinked several times, causing heavy tears to spill silently over her cheeks. "An asylum? You mean, for people who are ... who have lost their minds?"

Ron paused, struggling to find a better way to put it. Hermione carried on before he could speak again.

"What ... how ... what happened? Why are they there?" she asked.

"The Aurors' report says they were confused," Ron said slowly. "Apparently they couldn't quite remember who they were anymore - as if they were still the Wilkinses, but they could also sort of remember some of their past life as the Grangers. They stopped making much sense, and it sounds like the nurses at their dental practice finally, erm, turned them in."

Hermione sobbed, and Ron touched her cheek, calling her attention back to him.

"Do they … are … are they still in th-the, the asylum?"

Ron shook his head. "The Aurors Confunded the asylum staff and took your parents away with them. They're under the care of specialized Healers at Oenpelli Clinic in Sydney now. The team there are working very hard to find out what's wrong."

Hermione sniffled, and Ron reached for his wand to Conjure a handkerchief. He held it to her nose, and she dutifully blew into it and let him tidy her up.

"They're under a Calming spell, so they're not in any danger. They're not in any pain. They're not in any kind of, you know, discomfort," Ron continued. "And this is important, Hermione: The Healers say your memory charm was working wonderfully up until that point in March. They aren't exactly sure what's went wrong just then, but it wasn't your magic that's harmed them."

Hermione blew out a little puff of air that rustled the curls resting on her brow. "How can you say that?" she said weakly. "If I hadn't tampered with my parents' memories, they wouldn't have wound up in an asylum, for heaven's sake."

"That's where you're wrong, love," Ron said, shifting his hands to her shoulders and willing her to look at him. "If you hadn't tampered with their memories, your parents would be dead."

Hermione's body was racked with another wild shudder, but Ron pressed on anyway, knowing she needed to hear this no matter how painful. "The Death Eaters did come to Cambridge, Mione. I told you a little bit about what Harry and Dad and Bill and I found there when we went to check out your house. It was bad, Hermione. Bill set up a muggle-repelling ward to make the house look just fine from the outside, but inside … well, it's going to take the Ministry's Reconstruction Squad a fair bit of time to make it right again."

He cleared his throat, wishing he didn't have to tell her these things — but she needed to know. "They came looking for your parents, Hermione," he added. "If you hadn't gotten them out of Cambridge, hadn't masked their identities, they'd be dead now for sure."

Hermione squirmed under Ron's grasp, but he held firm. "I should have tried harder to find a way to get them out of Britain without messing with their minds, Ron!" she cried. "I should have—"

"Impossible!" he said, his voice louder and firmer than he'd really meant it to be, but he had her attention. "Hermione, you know bloody well that there was no way in hell your parents would have gone anywhere if you'd told them what was going on. Do you really think they would have left you behind if they'd known what kind of danger you were in?"

Hermione sniffled again and dropped her eyes to her lap.

"And I may not know much, Hermione Granger, but I know *you,*" he said, quieter and more warmly this time. "You wouldn't have considered going into hiding with your parents — not while Harry and I had the Horcrux mission ahead of us."

She looked at him fiercely then, but he didn't flinch.

"No, you wouldn't," he said, a small smile growing on his lips despite the tension in the room. "Believe me, I turned it over in my head all that summer, trying to figure some way to talk you into staying behind while Harry and I went on the hunt. But I knew it was useless. Wild hippogriffs couldn't keep you from that mission." His smile widened. "You were too convinced we'd screw it up without you."

Hermione's posture softened somewhat at these words and then, as if drawn to him like iron to a magnet, she sank into Ron's arms, curling her legs over his and tucking herself against his chest. Sobs shook her small frame, but she clung tightly to him as he wrapped his long arms around her and tenderly kissed her forehead, her temples, her eyes and her cheeks.

"I can't believe it. I can't believe ... they're ... they're *alive,*" she said through her tears, her face pressed against his chest. "Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry for what I said. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he said, running his hands up and down her back. "It's all right."

"No, it isn't. I can't believe you did this for me," she said, nuzzling up even closer to him. "Oh, Ronald. Thank goodness you followed your instincts."

Feeling his ears grow warm, Ron shrugged. "I'm just glad I was right."

She nodded against his chest and felt another wave of tears come on. "I have to go to them, Ron. I have to help the Healers sort them out."

Ron laced one hand through her hair and cupped the back of her head in his palm. "That's what Dad and Harry and I were discussing when you came back from town," he whispered against her forehead, pulling her still closer to him. "Kingsley's got it all arranged. We fly to Sydney tomorrow morning."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I'm enjoying getting to know a reader (and reviewer!) CallieSkye, who tells me she's relatively new to the world of Romione fanfics. I have SO MANY stories and writers I could recommend … many of them scattered throughout the Author's Notes within all of my fics. What Romione masterpieces would *you* recommend to Callie? Share them here! I'm interested!_

 _In the meantime, Callie, I highly recommend a Romione community here at FFN called S.S. Romione. It's managed by a reader named RustKnight, and it contains a pretty comprehensive cornucopia of Ron & Hermione-related fics from throughout FFN. Enjoy!_

 _Holly._


	7. Chapter 7: Fidelius Reversa

**Chapter 7: Fidelius Reversa**

"I'm sorry, I — I've — I've said too much," Ron rasped past the burning lump high in his throat, blinking hard. _Bugger_. _Bugger_ _McBuggerson_. _Merlin effing dammit._ He had to get out of there, and fast.

"Ron, wait." Hermione had risen to her feet. "Don't go—"

He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at her, making the briefest eye contact possible. "'M'allright," he mumbled softly with a half nod and a small, watery grin, willing the tears not to fall, though he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. The look on his face told her everything she needed to know. He was sorry. He needed time to collect himself. He'd be back. She nodded her understanding and he exited in a flash, striding purposefully into the hallway, though he had no bloody idea where he was really headed. All he knew was he needed a private space and he needed it immediately. He ignored the stares of Healers and orderlies shuffling past him and headed instinctively toward the lobby, remembering that he had spied a rather quiet-looking walled-in garden just beyond as they had entered the building earlier. If he was lucky, no one would be there.

Indeed, no one was.

Sinking down to sit along the rim of a giant stone fountain at the center of this small green oasis, Ron thanked the gods for the rushing water, which muffled the sound of the embarrassing sobs that soon racked his body. He knew, if circumstances were different, Hermione would be there with him at that moment, attempting to comfort him — but, in a weird way, he was glad she wasn't, that the conversation with her parents forced her to stay right where she was, in their hospital room. He needed to let this out, and her presence might only cause him to try to bottle it up.

Oh gods … bloody hell … Fred. *Fred.* Leaning forward and resting his palms on the wide marble wall of the fountain, Ron pressed his eyelids shut tightly, not knowing where the tears had come from exactly, and not knowing how long they would remain.

He hadn't seen it coming, this wave of grief. One minute, he was speaking — erm, rather loudly — to Hermione's Dad, and the next minute, he was choking, barely able to form words, as the full force of his feelings slammed into him, sending him silently reeling.

Mr. Granger's confusion, shock and anger had been quite understandable, of course, and Ron had been prepared for it. He'd been preparing himself for it, actually, from the moment he and Hermione boarded the aeroplane at Heathrow and took off toward Australia, Ron gripping his armrests nervously most of the way as the British Airways 747 lumbered down the runway and then — improbably to Ron's mind, at least — sailed into the air. He and Hermione had had a lot of time to talk, the two of them, during the flight — that is, when Ron wasn't distracted by the occasional jolt of turbulence — and Ron found that his main challenge was twofold: to convince Hermione that she, with the Healers' help, could set her parents' minds to right again and that, once she did so, they would forgive her, at least eventually.

He was right about the first part.

Ron didn't think he'd ever get used to the way people — complete strangers — tended to behave whenever he, Harry or Hermione showed up anywhere even so many weeks after the war. The gasps, the slack-jawed stares, the open-mouthed smiles … that seemed to be the pattern back home in Britain, but Ron wasn't expecting it here, in Australia. And yet, even the clinic staff wasn't immune. While none of them had gone so far as to ask for an autograph, their excitement over meeting two of The Golden Trio was evident, and when they arrived, Ron and Hermione had found themselves on the receiving end of the royal treatment, whisked into the building by a team of Aurors and escorted through hallways lined with awestruck clinic workers, to be brought into the private office of the Oenpelli Clinic's Senior Healer, a rather aristocratic, white-haired chap named Ponsonby Britt, who seemed only too eager to handle the mysterious case of the Wilkinses-cum-Grangers personally.

"I would like you to meet to the two specialists we have brought in to diagnose and treat your parents, Miss Granger," Britt had said with a small bow. "First, allow me to introduce Wilhelmina Ford. She is the Undersecretary for Magical Health within the administration of Fergus Quinlan, our Minister of Magic. As such, she is the highest-ranking Healer within Australia, and she has examined Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins — er, Granger — thoroughly and has been deeply involved in their treatment since they arrived here at the clinic."

A strikingly tall, auburn haired woman in a white lab coat and horn-rimmed glasses stepped forward and nodded serenely at Hermione, then at Ron. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, it is an honor to meet you and to be of assistance," she said warmly.

"And this," Britt added, gesturing toward a petite woman with luminous skin the color of polished mahogany and a blindingly white smile, "is Adina Dalabon, our Auror Division's top code-breaker. She has been consulting on the case since Day One. We called her in because of her unparalleled skill in reading auras and decoding complex psychic charms and spellwork — talents that come in right handy in wizarding diagnostics."

The small woman — even shorter than Hermione — stepped forward and clasped Hermione's hands in both of her own, grinning brilliantly. "We will set your parents right, Miss Granger," she said in a voice with the slightly sing-song lilt to it that Ron was beginning to notice was typical of the Australians he'd met thus far, and he liked it very much. "They're very strong and very healthy and I know, now that you are with us to guide our work, that we will have their memories restored in very short order."

Hermione had sniffled at that, and Ron wrapped an arm reassuringly around her shoulders. "We've got the very best people on the case, love," he murmured soft and low in her ear. She nodded swiftly, attempting to stifle the tears that threatened to flow. Ron clasped her elbow with his free hand in response and stroked it gently. "It'll be all right, Mione."

Hermione gave him a tight smile then turned her eyes toward Adina, squeezed her hands gently. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much for helping me. For helping us."

"It is our privilege to do so," Healer Ford chimed in softly, moving closer to stand beside Adina. "After everything you and Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter have done … well, we are all more grateful than we can say, Miss Granger. Words are inadequate to convey just how much."

Ron looked up to find, to his surprise, that Wilhelmina was sincerely choked up, blinking back tears of her own. Blimey.

Britt cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should all sit down and we can familiarize Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley with what we have observed and determined thus far," he said, taking a step toward a sofa and a cluster of chairs at the far end of his office, arranged in the light of a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the green and scenic grounds outside the clinic. Everyone followed his lead. Ron and Hermione settled closely together on the sofa, while the others arranged themselves on the remaining armchairs.

Wilhelmina Accioed a large file folder from Britt's desk and flipped it open on her lap, adjusting her glasses as she shuffled through several sheafs of parchment. Ron cast a sideways glance at Hermione and saw that her face had grown pale. He draped his arm about her shoulders and pulled her closer to him, and was gratified to feel her lean against his side, taking comfort in his closeness despite the onlookers.

"When the British Ministry made contact with us and informed us that the Wilkinses were indeed your parents, Miss Granger, I joined the treatment team and immediately reviewed their case file," Wilhelmina continued. "Your parents were fairly disoriented when they arrived here at the clinic, I"m sorry to say," she added as she settled on the parchment she was looking for. "They were quite confused about their identities. The Healers on duty at the time reported that they thought their name was Wilkins, but they seemed to have a memory of a daughter — a daughter who was in some sort of trouble, though they didn't understand quite what sort it was."

Wilhelmina straightened the papers in her lap a bit as she sought a way to explain further.

"The Wilkinses didn't know their daughter's name, but they each had a mental picture of her," she said. "That is apparently what prompted their co-workers at the dental practice to seek medical care for them. One day they were quite themselves — the next, they were unable to function, confused, quite distressed, and insisting on finding a daughter that no one was aware even existed."

Hermione shuddered and reached for Ron's hand, pulling it into her lap.

Adina leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on Hermione's knee. "It would seem, Miss Granger, that your spellwork held quite beautifully for many, many months. I have done thorough corporeal scans on your parents, and I must say I am duly impressed by the complexity of the magic you performed. The confusion they recently experienced … well, our theory is that it was brought about by a profound disruption in the magic — the kind you couldn't possibly have foreseen."

Hermione sniffled and shook her head. "But I *should* have considered … I thought I had planned for every possible contingency," she said breathlessly. "I'll never forgive myself if…if…

"Shhh," Ron said as reached for his wand and Conjured a handkerchief for her. "Hermione, love, I've said it before and I'll say it again. You did what you had to do to save—"

"No, Ron! I can't let myself off the hook that easily," Hermione snapped, squeezing the handkerchief in her fist. "My parents are incapacitated and it's *my fault,*" she wailed, pounding her chest with her fist for emphasis.

"Miss Granger," said Britt, who had risen from his seat and, much to Ron's surprise, had lowered himself on one knee before Hermione, taking her hands in his and speaking to her a gentle voice. "Miss Granger, it won't do to blame yourself. I suspect that Mr. Weasley was going to say that your actions saved your parents' lives, and I have little doubt that much is true."

Hermione, by this time, was struggling to rein in her tears, and failing miserably. She nodded through her sobs, though, and Britt continued. "Now, now. Adina here has been able to detect the broad outlines of your spellwork, Miss Granger. She tells us that you used a highly modified Memoria Falsus charm, and that you set up a third party — yourself, I presume — as Secret Keeper. Is she right about that?"

Hermione nodded, feeling calmer now that the conversation had turned to the mechanics of her sorcery.

"Very good," Britt continued. "That will help us tremendously. What would be even more helpful is to know what could possibly have happened to disrupt the connection between you, as Secret Keeper, and your parents. If we could decipher that aspect of the problem, we could reverse engineer the spell and lift the charms without damage."

Ron, who had been listening intently while rubbing Hermione's back soothingly, gasped with a sudden realization. "Hang on," he said slowly, brow furrowed. "When exactly were the Wilkinses — erm, the *Grangers* — brought to the asylum again?"

Wilhelmina shuffled the papers in her lap again, seeking the date. "It should be right here," she muttered to herself. "Oh yes — the 22nd of March," she answered. "Is that date significant?"

Ron gulped and turned to Hermione, who was looking up at him wide-eyed. "Do you think?" she whispered.

Ron took a deep breath and tried the idea on for size. He wasn't sure — at least not in his head — but something deeper than that told him his hunch was correct. Yes. The more he thought about it, the more right it seemed.

He nodded slightly to her. "Do you want to tell them, or should I?"

She tilted her head and looked down at her hands, still clutched in Healer Britt's.

Ron cleared his throat and turned to Britt. "Perhaps you'd better sit back down, sir."

Britt gave Hermione's hands a gentle squeeze before rising and returning to his seat. Ron, meanwhile, picked up where Britt left off, taking Hermione's hand in his while wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned in toward him again, happy to know she could rely on him to give voice to things she still could not.

Ron took a moment to collect himself, gulping past the tightness in his throat. He leveled his gaze first at Britt, then at Wilhelmina, and finally settled on Adina, who looked back at him with a small, sympathetic smile. At her nod, he began.

"Hermione was," he croaked, then swallowed hard. "Hermione was tortured," he continued in a stronger, clearer tone, sitting up a bit straighter. He willed himself to take another deep, steadying breath. "She was Crucioed. Not once. Not twice. Over and over again. And in between Crucios, she was beaten," he added, stifling a sob. He took another breath and continued. "It happened in late March. I didn't know what day it was at the time it happened — I was there, but we'd been on the road for so long. Tracking down Voldemort wasn't the sort of activity that required you to look at the calendar much. But since the war ended, Harry Potter and I have been meeting with a bunch of blokes in the British Ministry's Justice Department, piecing together the sequence of events … sort of a working timeline … so they can prosecute the Death Eaters that they've caught and hopefully the ones who are still at large. And based on all that, I reckon what happened to Hermione … the Crucios … 22 March fits the timeframe."

Adina's eyes were watering at this point. A stunned silence had fallen over the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of Britt's staff going about their business in the anteroom just outside his office doors.

"Crucio," Wilhelmina finally breathed with a slight shake of her head. "Do you recall … can you … estimate how many?"

Ron tipped his head down to look at Hermione, who had been staring intently at his hand, which was pressed tightly between hers in her lap. "I lost count at eleven," Ron said softly, wincing at their companions' audible gasps.

Hermione straightened up at this and faced the group. "The Healers at St. Mungo's say they found scarring consistent with 17 Crucios," she said firmly, her chin raised at a defiant angle. Ron's heart warmed at the sight.

"Seventeen Crucios," Britt said, his brow furrowed as he ran through the possibilities in his head. "Dear lord. And yet, Merlin bless me, Miss Granger, but you seem … you are …"

"Fully, functionally intact. No mental impairment whatsoever," Hermione replied firmly. "That was the finding of the chief neuromedicus specialist at St. Mungo's."

"Forgive my astonishment, my dear," Britt said. "It's just that, I daresay none of us have known anyone who has withstood so many Crucios and lived to tell the tale." Wilhelmina and Adina nodded and murmured their agreement.

"You've never known Hermione Jean Granger," said Ron. Hermione tilted her face up to him and her previous, mutinous look melted into a wan smile. Ron smiled back, thanking the universe once again — as he seemed to do many times a day — that she was still alive, was still Hermione, and was his. "So," he said, sobering up after a moment's pause, "the point is, you said something must have seriously disrupted Hermione's magic. I reckon being Crucioed … well, seems to me that might have done it."

Adina touched her finger to her lips, thinking over Ron's idea. "Hmm," she said, turning to Wilhelmina. "It's uncharted territory, to an extent, but I have certainly read of cases where the Fidelius was disrupted."

"Indeed. It's been known to happen," Wilhelmina replied.

"The electrical currents summoned by the Crucio might explain the short-circuiting, if you will, of the Grangers' memories," Britt added. "Yes. It does stand to reason."

Hermione leaned forward, as if struck by a fresh insight. Her eyes shone with the same excitement of discovery that had lit her face so many times before at Hogwarts and on the Horcrux hunt. Ron marveled at how long it had been since he'd seen that light in her eyes, and his heart thumped in his chest at the sight of it. "That's precisely what happened," Hermione said breathlessly. "The person who … who tortured me, she told me that my parents were dead. She and some of her comrades had seen to it personally — or so she claimed. She said they'd tracked them down and killed them. Obviously, that was a lie, but she was so convincing. I believed it. Under other circumstances, I might not have, but I was in such pain … I can't explain it, but her lie rang true to me. My belief that they were dead — combined with the electro-neuronic effects of the Crucio itself — could have eroded the Intentional sequence of the Fidelius, could it not?"

Britt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It very well could. It very well could have done, my dear."

"So if I reverse engineer the Fidelius," Hermione continued, "in other words, if I reinstall it, as it were, and then undo it using the standard Fidelius Reversa—"

"Yes," said Wilhelmina, her face warming with a smile to match Hermione's. "Yes, that just might work."

As Hermione and the specialists discussed the possibilities, a theory emerged — that the Fidelius bond between Hermione and her parents frayed, as it were, under the stress of the repeated Crucio exposure, thus opening Hermione's parents' minds at least partially to the memory of their former life. Adina went so far as to speculate that the Grangers may have experienced a small share of the Crucio themselves, given the blood connection between the three of them. "It wouldn't be unprecedented," she mused.

"So, my parents would have felt the pain of the Crucio?" Hermione asked, her voice wobbling.

"Oh no, I very much doubt they would have felt the full force of it, Miss Granger," Adina said reassuringly. "It might have been a bit of discomfort, if at all, merely a faint trace of what you went through yourself."

Hermione let out a breath. "Thank goodness."

"Would you care to see them?" Britt asked.

Hermione nodded before she had a moment to think — but then, she seemed to hesitate.

"Are they — do you think it would be jarring for them to see me?"

"We have them under several layers of Calming spells at the moment," Wilhelmina said, rising to her feet. "Come."

And there they had been, the Grangers, laid out in semi-darkness on one large hospital-style bed, side by side, in a spacious and immaculate room. To Ron's eyes, the Grangers looked as they always had seemed to him — Eleanor, graced with the same creamy complexion and delicate features as Hermione's, wearing a kindly expression, and Hugh with a shock of curly dark hair, his face somehow radiating intelligence and wit even in sleep — and they also appeared to be rather comfortable, as if merely napping. Hermione's hand tensed in his, however, at the sight of them. Ron could see her thoughts written plainly on her pale, tense face: shock, guilt, worry but, most of all, love and longing. She hadn't seen her parents for roughly a year, and what a year it had been. He knew all she wanted was to throw herself into their arms and never let go. He hoped that would be possible soon.

He and Hermione both were surprised, however, at how speedily things progressed once Hermione, as Secret Keeper, was present and the Healers had a working theory about what had undone her parents' minds. Within a quarter of an hour, Wilhelmina, Adina and Britt had worked through a blaze of incantations, spells and counterjinxes, and then, the three of them were poised beside the Grangers' bed, wandtips joined, waiting for Hermione to do her bit. With Ron standing close by her side, Hermione raised her wand to theirs and, with a shaky but clear voice, uttered the modified incantation Britt had instructed her to use: "Fidelius Replenisho Reversa." Within moments, Eleanor's eyelids fluttered, then Hugh's. They may have fallen asleep as some strange blend of Wilkins and Granger, but when they awoke, they were the Grangers once more.

At first, there had been amazement, followed by tears as Hermione collapsed into her parents' arms. The elation of reconnection was soon replaced, however, by confusion and then displeasure as Eleanor and then Hugh slowly took in their surroundings and started asking questions about where they were and what had happened.

"Wait, what?" Hugh had bellowed, "we're in sodding Australia? What in blazes—"

"Hugh, please," Eleanor pleaded. "There must be an explanation—"

"Oh, there'd better be a damned good explanation," Hugh boomed.

Hermione, at this point, was curled up at her mother's side, weeping on her shoulder, as Hugh, with surprising vigor for a man just emerged from a Calming spell, paced the room hurriedly in his pyjamas. Ron attempted to stay out of Hugh's way while remaining as close by Hermione's side as he could possibly be — finally choosing to stand just next to the bedside in the far corner of the room.

Wilhelmina took it upon herself to explain the clinical side of the situation — that Hermione, seeking to protect Hugh and Eleanor from the danger of the coming war, had placed them under a powerful memory charm and sent them out of harm's way to Australia. And that the charm Hermione placed had come partially undone, resulting in their hospitalization. Britt supplied the political context, explaining that Hermione's actions were necessary as the British wizarding world had come under the grip of Voldemort — and that Harry, Ron and Hermione were tasked with bringing him down. They'd succeeded, and now were regarded as heroes throughout the global wizarding community.

Eleanor had been able to listen to most of this fabulous tale with only occasional expressions of alarm, holding Hermione tight to her side and running her hand protectively over her hair. Hugh had taken in as much information as he could, though he erupted with full-blown wrath at certain portions of the story — most especially the idea that three teenagers would be expected to do something as mad as defying a wizard universally regarded as the most dangerous who ever lived.

"And I'm sorry," he boomed, turning to face Hermione and Eleanor on the bed, as Britt, Wilhelmina and Adina looked on from nearer the doorway, "but I still can't understand how my own daughter, my own flesh and blood, could possibly have turned her magic on her parents! She tampered with our minds. Our minds! Our very identities! It's … it's …"

"Stop now, Hugh — don't! Don't say something you'll only regret later," Eleanor said.

"It's unforgivable is what it is!" Hugh shrieked. "Absolutely unforgivable. I don't care *what* the circumstances were. After everything we've done for our daughter, for her to betray our trust like that—"

"Now hold it right there," Ron shouted, his hands balled into fists at his side, his face reddened with fury. "That's enough."

Hugh turned to face Ron from across the room, incredulity and wrath written on his features. He looked almost amused, almost pleased to have a fresh target for his outrage — and one that Eleanor wasn't as likely to protect as Hermione. "I beg your pardon, but what are you even doing here, Ron Weasley?" Hugh spat. "How is this any of your business?"

"Hermione is my business," Ron answered in a lower, calmer tone. "You have a right to be angry. You have a right to be confused. You have a right to demand answers. I've let you go on and on, but when you say what Hermione has done is unforgivable, then you've gone too far. She's worried herself sick over that very idea — that you'd never forgive her. Merlin's beard, when I think how many times I told her she was bloody mental, that her parents loved her so much, they would forgive her no matter what … I didn't realize how wrong I was. I thought you were better than this."

"How dare you—"

"Hermione did what she did to protect you," Ron said, his voice rising, stepping forward. "And even if you never forgive her for it, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to convince her that what she did was right. You'd be dead if she hadn't sent you away — and there was no way you'd leave if you'd known the danger she was in."

He stopped to press the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nostrils.

"Ron," Hermione whispered.

He shook his head and lowered his hands to his hips. "Actually, despite everything Hermione did to protect you, she eventually thought the two of you were dead," he said evenly, speaking directly into Hugh's face. "The person who tortured her — yes, *tortured* her — told her you'd been killed. Killed. Hermione has mourned you for weeks — no, months — now. *Mourned* you. We were all convinced you were gone, that the magic she tried had failed. But now I know how wrong I was to doubt Hermione's magic. Of course it worked. Of course you lived."

Hermione, by then, had shifted away from her mother and had risen to stand next to Ron, though he wouldn't look at her — he was still focused on Hugh.

"The war's over, and I'm bloody glad of it, don't get me wrong," Ron continued. "But we took our losses along the way, and we've had to bear a shit ton of grief, not only over losing you. Friends died. My brother died. And they're never coming back." He gulped and blinked hard. "Now you're here, and it's a bloody miracle. A bloody effing miracle. You don't realize how lucky you are. You should be celebrating. But no, you'd rather throw your tantrums and make your accusations, Hermione's feelings be damned. And while you've been raving away, I keep thinking of my brother, and … what I wouldn't give—"

Hermione had placed her hand on Ron's shoulder then, and her touch snapped him out of his thoughts and reminded him where he was — and whom he was speaking to.

"I'm sorry, I — I've — I've said too much," he sputtered, and that was when he had beat his retreat to the shelter of the garden. It was there, by the fountain, that Ron finally allowed himself to acknowledge how deeply he envied Hermione and her parents, as ridiculous as he knew it was to feel that way. She had believed her parents were lost — and, thank Merlin, she had been wrong. If only ... if only ... well, damn it, he could hardly even let himself think it. It was impossible, he knew. There would be no miraculous reunion with Fred. Fred was gone. Ron had seen him die, witnessed it with his own eyes. Still ... watching Hermione reunite with her parents ... and watching Hugh eff it up with his rants ... it was hard for Ron not to wish for things to be different, not to wish that he could somehow have Fred back again. Though he knew that the very idea was mental in the extreme.

The sound of throat-clearing over the whoosh of the fountain lifted him from his musings, and he straightened up to see Adina poised by the garden entrance. "Would you mind a bit of company?" she asked tentatively.

Ron shook his head and wiped his face with his sleeve, sniffing a few times and straightening up further, though the heat in his ears told him that his face was likely still aflame from embarrassment.

Adina seated herself on the fountain's ledge next to him, a small smile gracing her lips. "You are hurting," she said softly.

Ron nodded and couldn't help but chuckle at the simplicity of her statement. He ran his hand through his hair and looked into the waters of the fountain.

"I know your pain over your brother is very sharp right now. But the hurt I speak of runs deeper than just the loss of your brother, deeper than the sympathy you feel for Miss Granger, and even deeper than the pain of the war itself," Adina continued.

Startled, Ron shifted his eyes to Adina and felt strangely calmed by her sympathetic smile. "It is a very old, very deep hurt, one you have been carrying with you since you were quite small. I read auras, Mr. Weasley, and I see it there."

Ron shrugged.

"You are a much more powerful wizard than you realize, Mr. Weasley," she said. "It is written in your aura. Your power is innate, intuitive. You fail only when you doubt it. When you trust it, however, you are formidable. Overcoming that doubt — this is your challenge."

Ron pondered her words, and had to acknowledge that they made a certain sense. He'd thought about it off and on ever since he'd tripped upon the real purpose of the Deluminator. Something — he wasn't sure what — had told him what to do when that ball of light presented itself to him, and he noticed that there were many times since then when his gut was all the guidance he ever seemed to need. He smiled inwardly at the thought of it, but Adina had more to say.

"I was born with the ability to read auras, Mr. Weasley. It's a trait that runs in my family. Yours is a very deep, wonderfully rich indigo. Miss Granger's is a brilliant, clear, golden orange."

"Mmm," Ron hummed, trying to picture what Adina seemed to see.

"When the two of you were sitting next to one another on the sofa earlier, I couldn't help but admire the combination of colors, side-by-side," she said. "But then, something unusual happened. I've seen it before, but not very often."

Ron sat more fully upright, curious to know more.

"When the events of March 22nd came up, and as you described what happened on that horrible day, Mr. Weasley, your aura, well … it wrapped itself around Miss Granger, so that it enveloped both you and her. It's called an Aural Shield. Highly uncommon."

Ron shook his head slowly. He remembered wishing Hermione didn't have to relive the events of Malfoy Manor for this roomful of relative strangers. He remembered the feelings that stirred in him even just in the retelling — his horror over what Hermione had endured, his deep frustration that he had been powerless to protect her. "So … an Aural Shield … what does that mean?"

Adina laughed softly. "Only that you love Miss Granger very deeply, and that you'd be willing to die for her, though I suspect you already knew that," she added with a grin, and Ron felt his ears heat up uncomfortably. "It also happens to mean that she loves you that deeply as well, or her aura would never allow itself to be blanketed by yours. Auras normally remain adjacent to one another, rather than overlapping in such a way."

Ron couldn't help but smile at this. "I do love her, you know. Loved her for years." He would normally feel like a ponce for saying such a thing out loud, but Adina had a way of making him feel that such admissions were entirely all right with her.

"Hang on to that," Adina said.

"How is she — now, I mean," Ron asked. "I feel like a tit for stirring things up and then leaving her to clean it all up."

"You shouldn't," Adina said. "I do believe you said exactly the right thing. You acknowledged your own loss, and thereby put everything that the Grangers have gained into proper perspective. Miss Granger's father is much calmer now. They're talking. I think it will be all right. And that is very much thanks to you."

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — Readers of my first fic, "All In," will recognize Adina Dalabon from that story. I couldn't resist bringing her back for this one. I just sort of love her.  
_

 _Here's something I wanted to share with you, dear readers, while I have your attention: The other day, I craved a good Romione read and started sifting through my gigantic archive of FFN favorites. I dug deep — way back to fics that were posted years before I had ever heard of FFN. And, in the process, I rediscovered a wonderful tale called "I Can't Talk About It" by a writer named Penny-in-the-sky. Penny's profile indicates that she is Swedish, and she joined FFN in 2002, though her account seems, sadly, to have been inactive for many, many years. Still, what she left behind for us Romione lovers is a real treasure — several awesome stories written with such skill that you would never guess she was writing in anything other than her native tongue. "I Can't Talk About It" is my favorite, hands-down, but all of her fics are worth checking out. So find Penny-in-the-sky and get busy, people!_

 _But first, please review and, if you are so inclined, please share this story with your fellow Romione fans!_

 _More soon …_

 _Holly._


	8. Chapter 8: Admissions and Revelations

**Chapter 8: Admissions and Revelations**

"Ow!" Ron howled, stumbling backward and pressing a hand to his eye, which was suddenly swelling at an alarming rate. "Merlin's sugarcoated *tits*!"

"I'm just getting started," Hugh growled as he rolled up his sleeves and hauled back as if to punch Ron again. Hermione was quicker, however, and cast a strong Protego charm between the two men before scrambling to Ron's side and propping him up.

"Daddy, how could you *do* such a thing?" she shrieked, her face reddening as she cast a Muffliato toward the doorway, hoping to keep hospital staff from seeking out the cause of the commotion.

"Hugh!" Eleanor sputtered. She grabbed Hugh's arm and pulled him away from the invisible shield. "Darling, get a hold of yourself!"

Hugh shook off Eleanor's grasp and waved a shaking fist in Ron's direction. "I have ears, Eleanor — though I don't know what's wrong with yours. That — that — *wizard* just admitted that he's been sleeping with our daughter!"

"Daddy!" Hermione exclaimed as Ron continued to press his eye experimentally with his palm. "You're overreacting!"

"Overreacting, is it? I may not know what goes on in your wizarding world Hermione," he said, placing sarcastic emphasis on _wizarding_ , "but in my world, if a young man says anything within earshot about shagging my daughter, he's going to get a punch in the eye and worse!"

"It's not like that!" Ron bellowed. "For the love of Merlin, all I did was agree that Hermione should stay here at the hospital with you tonight and that I should go back to the guest quarters at the Ministry. And then, boom! I get a knuckle sandwich." Blimey! When Ron had left Adina and returned to the Grangers' hospital room an hour before, everyone seemed so calm, and Hugh seemed downright contrite about the way he'd behaved earlier. But then it came time to discuss sleeping arrangement for the night and all holy hell broke loose.

Hermione, her eyes still ablaze with fury, stood up on tiptoe and took Ron's face in her hands, tut-tutting over the black eye blooming there. "Oh Ronald, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry," she said soothingly despite her enraged expression. "I'll take you to the Healers' station and have them fix you up."

"You're not going anywhere!" Hugh boomed as Eleanor looked on worriedly from behind the Protego. "Not until I get some answers, young man, because you said a damned sight more than just 'Oh, darling, I'll head back to the Ministry.' You said something about this being a chance for Hermione to try sleeping without you or some such nonsense — and don't deny it!"

Ron gulped and lifted his hand to the back of his neck, his ears reddening almost painfully. _Great Gandalf's gonads — I did say that, didn't I?_

Hermione, for her part, sank from her tiptoes, looking equally guilty. "It's not what you think, Daddy," she said, attempting to sound calm.

Hugh ignored her.

"Are you or are you not sleeping with my daughter, young man?"

 _Shit._

Ron took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and, reaching for his wand, wordlessly lowered the Protego before looking Hugh directly in the eye. "I am," he said, and did nothing to sidestep Hugh's subsequent roundhouse punch to the jaw.

Hermione gasped as Ron took the force of the blow. "Daddy, honestly!" she cried.

Ron staggered momentarily, drawing in a lungful of air through his nostrils, but he did not fall — nor did he raise his fists to fight back. He merely drew himself back up to his full height, barely noticing that Hermione had thrown her arms around his neck, and he rubbed his bruised jaw, looking back at Hugh with an expression that was part defiance and part grudging respect.

"Hugh, what on Earth has come over you?" Eleanor scolded, stepping toward Ron and placing her hand on Ron's shoulder before turning to her husband accusingly.

As the bruise on Ron's jawline slowly expanded, Hermione felt her blood boil. She let go of Ron's shoulders and turned, chest heaving, to face her father. "After the war, I had nightmares, father. *Nightmares,*" she said, her voice quivering with barely contained indignation as she moved a half step to her left to place herself that much more firmly in front of Ron. "I couldn't sleep. I would dream of you and Mum, dead in your graves. I would dream of being tortured, except that in my dreams, Ron wasn't there to save me. And he *did* save me."

She shuddered, and Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, even as Eleanor shifted places to stand on Hermione's other side.

"Go on, darling," Eleanor said softly.

"I couldn't sleep. I was so afraid of having these dreams again that I went night after night without sleep until finally I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. And, of course, the nightmares came back. The only way I could feel safe was with Ron," Hermione continued, sniffling as she went. "So he took me to his room and, well, we slept. We. Slept. That's what we've been doing. *Sleeping.*"

Hugh, who had been listening with his mouth slightly agape, shook his head at this and sighed. "And Molly and Arthur — your parents — they allowed this?"

Ron nodded. "I didn't give them much choice, truth be told," he said. "Though I assured my father I wouldn't do anything to disrespect him in his home — and I haven't."

"And he believed you."

"I gave him my word."

Hugh stood silent for a moment, his head tilted downward, his hands on his hips.

"And you give me your word that you haven't violated my daughter?"

Hermione audibly scoffed at this — muttering "violated indeed!" under her breath — but Eleanor shooshed her before she could say more.

"I give you my word, sir."

Hugh brought his gaze back to Ron's. "And do you give me your word that you will not do so in the future?"

Hermione squeaked, bug-eyed and open-mouthed, searching for a way to express her outrage at being talked about as if she wasn't even there — and for her _sex life_ , for pity's sake, to be bargained over as if she had no say in the matter! She was so busy trying to form words that she was shocked when Ron beat her to it.

"Sir, I fully intend to ask your daughter to marry me someday," Ron said firmly.

Hermione gasped and whirled around, her eyes darting from point to point on Ron's bruised face in utter amazement.

"Sorry, Mione, that wasn't how I meant to bring that idea up."

"Oh," Hermione said absently. "Oh … oh, Ronald," she whispered, still searching his face.

"Listen," Ron continued at a lower volume, bending slightly toward Hermione and placing his hands on her shoulders — completely oblivious to the look of total shock that had come across Hugh's face, not to mention the wry smile that graced Eleanor's. "This is neither the time nor the place to … well … it's been a bloody long day, hasn't it," he continued. "Let's just all get some rest and start fresh tomorrow, yeah?"

"But, but —"

"I think we all just need a little space," Ron added, cutting her off. "I'm going to head back to the guest quarters at the Ministry. I'll Vanish your suitcase to you here, all right? And tomorrow morning, I'll pop 'round to help get you and your folks back to their house once they're discharged."

She sniffled.

"You'll be all right tonight, I promise," he said, rubbing her shoulders gently. "Besides, I'm going to St. Agnes for Auror training next week so, like I said when this whole bloody fight got started, tonight will be good practice for you to sleep without me, won't it. Your folks are here. There's an entire ruddy staff of Healers here. And if you need me, all you need to do is send me a Patronus and I'll be here in a heartbeat, wand drawn. OK?"

Hermione nodded, and then sank into his arms and sobbed.

"Shh," Ron said, running his hands up and down her back, not caring that Hermione's parents were watching. "You're so strong, Hermione. You're the strongest person I know. You'll be fine, love. You'll see."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I'd like to talk a little bit about how I visualize these beloved Harry Potter characters._

 _Of course, since the casting of the play, "The Cursed Child," there's been a lot of discussion of Hermione's race. I read something recently — I wish I could remember where — in which the writer expressed an expectation that fanfic authors should now comply with "the new canon" and write Hermione as if she were black._

 _I have no problem with picturing Hermione as a black person. I understand that JKR herself says Hermione's race was never explicitly identified in the books. And if I were to see the play, I would have no trouble accepting a black actress playing Hermione. I've really enjoyed much of the fanart that's come out lately featuring a black Hermione. But there's what's depicted on stage and screen — and then there's what I depict in my own head. And the fact is, I have a very particular image in my mind when I think of and write Hermione and, for better or worse, it's basically a modified, slightly shorter version of Emma Watson. I'm funny that way. Once I get a character's image fleshed out in my imagination, it's tough for me to change it, and I came to regard Emma Watson (maybe with curlier hair) as Hermione fairly early in my Harry Potter "career" as it were._

 _For that matter, Daniel Radcliffe *is* Harry in my mind — though I tend to mentally transform him into a green-eyed person._

 _Ron, interestingly enough, is an entirely different matter for me. Much as I love Rupert Grint — and I do, he's adorable — my mental picture of Ron is more in keeping with the books: much taller than Rupert (god bless him — again, I know there are a lot of Rupe-worshipers here), lankier, with a pointier nose and perhaps more chiseled facial contours than Rupe's. My picture of Ron may have been shaped more by Mary GrandPre, the original illustrator of the Harry Potter books, than by anything. If you want an idea of how Ron looks in my head, go to Tumblr and check out Natello's Art, which can also be found under atalienart. There's a triptych of Ron that takes my breath away — I reblog it from time to time from my own Tumblr blog (holly1492, surprisingly enough), because it's just that stunning. If you want to know what I'm picturing when I write Ron, Natello's version is pretty much it (maybe with a squarer jawline)._

 _Like I said, once I get a notion of a character's looks in my head, it's tough for me to drop it. For instance, I absolutely luuuurrrrrrrrrvvvvvvved the 2005 version of "Pride and Prejudice" with Keira Knightley and Matthew McFadyen. I've watched it a dozen times. But in my head, Elizabeth will always be Jennifer Ehle (from the 1995 production) and Darcy will ALWAYS be Colin Firth (also circa 1995) — though, weirdly, when I read the book nowadays (and I do, frequently), I like to picture Rosamund Pike (2005 production) as Jane. Go figure._

 _The point is, you're free to visualize whatever you want to when you're reading Ron and Hermione in my world. What you don't get to do, however, is to tell me how I need to visualize any of these characters — or to judge me because I am not complying with the latest interpretation._

 _I'm curious to know what you see in your mind's eye when you picture Ron and Hermione. Weigh in here, please!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	9. Chapter 9: Billets-Doux

**Chapter 9: Billets-Doux**

31 August 1998  
The Burrow

Dear Hermione,

Gods, it's only half seven in the evening here in Devon. I feel like it was noon five minutes ago — which in a way it was, I suppose — and yet, my body feels like it should be midnight all at the same time. Taking three International Portkeys in one day will do that to a bloke, won't it.

I can hardly believe you were in my arms just a few hours ago, and now you're 10,000 miles away from me, Hermione. Just the thought of it … well, it makes my chest actually hurt, though you might not believe me when I say so. I miss you so much already, love. How am I going to get through the next two months without seeing you?

Apparating away from you this morning has to rank right up there as one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. I couldn't help but think about the last time I left your side that way, on the hunt. If I were smart, I wouldn't even bring it up. But the memory is there and I can't seem to escape it. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that mistake, love. I know I'll never quite get there. But this morning I could at least comfort myself with one thought: Unlike that horrible rainy night when I Apparated away from you outside that smelly old tent, today at least I knew you were safe and sound, there with your parents — and with Aurors standing guard by your parents' house 24/7 for good measure. The other big difference: This time I know we'll be together again someday. In the meantime, we can write letters. Letters. They can't compare to the feeling of holding you in my arms, but I reckon they'll have to do for now. That is, if you are actually home in time for my first leave from St. Agnes over Halloween weekend. I know, I know — your parents might not be ready to head back by then but, sweet Merlin, I hope they are.

Thanks to your cajoling I did indeed land at the International Portkey Station with plenty of time to spare — and I needed every bit of those 15 minutes or so to pull myself together. I was such a sloppy, teary mess when I landed, I'm sure the Portkey Minder thought I was a right ponce.

Tell your Dad he can stop apologizing. Everything's really OK. No hard feelings. I understand where he was coming from and, bloody hell, he had a lot to sort out in a very short period of time, didn't he. I don't blame him for blowing his stack, and I know that he's not normally the kind of bloke who goes around punching people in the face. I tried to tell him so more than once this morning, but he was so busy apologizing and trying to make me feel better that I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

The important thing is, you will have a few weeks to spend alone now with your parents. You need that time with them, and they'll appreciate having you around to help them get their stuff organized. Moving back to Cambridge is going to be a big job, especially since they're insisting on doing everything the muggle way. Oh well. I'll miss you like crazy — I already miss you so much that it physically hurts, and it's only been a few hours — but after tomorrow, I'll be at St. Agnes doing Merlin knows what anyway. Hopefully the training will help take my mind off of how much I miss you, but I doubt it.

I hope you're back in Britain by the time Harry and I get our first leave, but I'll understand if it doesn't work out, really I will. Concentrate on your parents, love — don't worry about me.

11:30 p.m.

I put this letter down for a while to go downstairs and hang out with Mum and Dad. They wanted to hear more about how your parents are faring and all that, so I went down to fill them in while Mum cleaned up after dinner. Now everybody's in bed — the whole house is quiet. Big day tomorrow, of course. We all need our rest so Ginny can catch the Hogwarts Express and Harry and I can take another sodding Portkey and report bright and early for our first day at St. Agnes Island.

But now, of course, I can't sleep. I can't sleep because, Merlin help me, I didn't realize how much I'd gotten used to having you here with me at night. When I was writing earlier, I was trying like mad to keep from telling you just how miserable I am, for fear that you might think … well, I don't know, that you might feel guilty for staying behind with your parents or that I don't think you can manage without me or maybe that I'm not eager to become an Auror or some rubbish like that. But there's no point denying it — I'm downright wretched right now, Hermione, I really am. I've lived without you before, and I had hoped I'd never have to do it again. Auror training only runs until next May but, good Godric, it might as well be a million years. I'm gutted at the thought that I'll be without you until our first leave and maybe even *longer.* Please, love, if you can see your way clear to being here in October, I'd be so glad. I know it's important that you stay in Sydney until your parents' business is all sorted but … bloody hell, if I can't see you at the Halloween break, I think I'll run mad.

Oh, Hermione.

You belong with me, damn it. Yes, of course, we both have shite that we need to do, but …

If you were here with me right now, I'd wrap you in my arms and kiss those sweet lips of yours, and then your nose and then your cheeks and then your neck and especially that spot behind your ears. And I'd savor the vanilla smell of you — Is that your shampoo or what? Whatever it is, it drives me mental — and I'd be boggled all over again at how smooth and soft and touchable your skin is, and how perfectly you fit next to me in my bed.

Gods, I love you.

I'm going to sign off now and hand this thing to Pig so he has a chance of handing it off to an International Owl by morning. It's strange to think this very parchment that I'm holding right now will be in your very hands by tomorrow or maybe the next day. I wish I could be there, too.

I'll write the first chance I get at St. Agnes. Until then …

I'm yours,

Ron.

oooOOOooo

10 September 1998  
Yarranabbe Road  
Darling Point  
Sydney

Dearest Ronald,

Never again bother to describe that painful feeling in your chest or doubt that I believe it's there, because I feel it too, darling. It's a deep, aching pain, an emptiness that only you can fill. I miss you so very, very much. Every other minute, it seems, I ask myself what time it is in St. Agnes and wonder what you might be doing. I'm sure that, whatever it is, it's quite challenging. I'm confident, however, that you are doing well, and I couldn't be prouder of you if I tried. My big, strong Auror! And don't go to the trouble of reminding me that you're merely a recruit. You're already an Auror in my book, a full-fledged hero … *my* hero … and don't you forget it.

Mum and Dad are quite busy right now tying up the loose ends of their business and private affairs — with the Australian Ministry's gracious help, it should be noted. Their Muggle Relations team stepped in, quite without us asking, to clean up the mess created by the breakdown in my parents' memories, judiciously applying memory modifications where necessary so that no one seems to recall that Wendell and Monica Wilkins experienced any kind of mental difficulty whatsoever. Mum and Dad both had worked only part-time at a nearby dental clinic here in Darling Point, enjoying the semi-retired lifestyle, and so it's been a relatively simple thing to give their two-week notice to their employers and announce that they are returning to the U.K. to be closer to family.

Selling the house should be a snap as well, as Darling Point is a remarkably lovely neighborhood and homes are bought up practically overnight here for prices that would make your jaw drop. What's been daunting, however, is the news that the house in Cambridge might not be ready for occupancy for at least another two or three weeks. Kingsley Owled to say that the Reconstruction Squad is still scrubbing the house of Dark curses, which is dreadful news but also helpful in a way, as it serves to underscore to my parents just how grave the situation back home really was and how much danger they were in as the war intensified. Not that my parents are terribly inclined to doubt our word for it anymore — the nearly endless stream of dignitaries popping 'round the house, from Minister Fergus Quinlan on down, paying their respects and otherwise carrying on about the great service "the Golden Trio" has done for wizardkind, etc., etc. … well, you know what it can be like to endure these visits. Mum and Dad are quite awestruck by it all.

I'll be so happy to be back in England again and therefore so much nearer to you, my darling, but it pains me to think that, even so, it will be so very, very long before I can see you again, can touch you again, can feel your arms curled tight about my waist and your lips upon mine. Is October 31 really just a mere eight weeks away? It feels like a lifetime.

I'm also eager to return to Britain because, in addition to informing us of the state of my parents' house back in Cambridge, Kingsley's Owl also contained a job offer. A job offer! Can you believe it? It would seem that he would like me to work with him, part-time at first, as sort of an assistant. Special Attaché for Policy is the title. I quite like the sound of that, though perhaps the wording of it sounds more posh than it really will be in practice. It seems that the role would mainly involve being a sort of go-to person for him, to do research, draft legislation, go out into the community to hear peoples' concerns, that sort of thing. I could never have dreamed of such a job. I'm beyond honored that Kingsley is creating it with me in mind, Ronald. I can hardly believe my luck. And the part-time arrangement is perfect, for now, because it gives me time to do the independent study I had planned with McGonagall so I can sit for my NEWTs next spring.

When I Owled Kingsley and asked him when he'd like me to start, he wrote back, "Yesterday!" Of course, he understands that getting my parents' situation straightened out will take some time, but his offer certainly gives Mum and Dad that much more incentive to get back home promptly. If the Cambridge house can be put to right soon then yes, my darling, I should be able to see you on your break at Halloween, and I can't be held responsible for what I might do when you are finally within reach again.

I will be most gratified if, in the light of a Halloween moon, you kiss me in all the places you mentioned, but most especially on that little spot behind my ear, because I do indeed melt when you do that. Oh, darling — please write again soon and know that I am counting the minutes until I see you again.

All my love,  
Hermione.

oooOOOooo

14 September 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Dearest, sweetest, loveliest, naughtiest Hermione,

Damn, International Owls take a long time to arrive, don't they? And sometimes they get bunched up. I went three days without hearing from you — and veered from being mildly confused to right cross to dead depressed — and then today, three separate Owls arrived carrying three different letters from you, one dated right after the other. I suppose the little fellers get tired doing all that flying, and I can't say I blame them. But just for the record, I should make it clear right now that I am writing to you *every single day* — as a good boyfriend should, mind — so if you don't get a letter on any particular day, don't blame me — it's the Owl's fault! I never want you to think I don't appreciate getting a letter from you each and every morning, because I do. There's nothing like the thrill of having a parchment from you at breakfast time. Makes putting up with the sounds and smells of the St. Agnes mess hall that much easier, believe me.

Your last two letters were especially saucy, Miss Granger. Are you trying to drive me mad? Damn, woman — if you keep this up, I'm going to have no choice but to Portkey back to Australia and make you deliver on some of these promises, love, St. Agnes be damned. Sure, I'd be drummed out of the Corps for desertion, but there are other ways I could make a living. I could be your personal bodyguard when you start working at the Ministry, maybe. The special attaché for policy to the Minister for Magic is likely to need some hired muscle, right? You'll for sure need that kind of protection when you succeed Kingsley as Minister, which I predict will be any day now, so keep me in mind.

In the meantime, please know that I never stop thinking about what I'm going to do to you when I get my hands on you again at Halloween. I hope you're ready, my love, because I don't think you're going to see much daylight for that entire weekend. Bring snacks!

I manage to think about you and that delightfully round backside of yours … and that mole on the left side of your neck … and the little dimple in the middle of your lower lip … even when I'm running around the St. Agnes obstacle course like a bleeding eedjit, or suffering through Tactics class, or dueling in Advanced Wandwork, or stifling a yawn during morning Assembly. You're always in my mind, Hermione, and you're the whole reason I'm here, doing what I'm doing. I know you think it's because I've always wanted to be an Auror but, really, I'm here because I want to make you proud — and if I happen to learn a few things that will keep you that much safer along the way, then all the better. Because it is indeed my mission to keep you safe from here on out love, now and forever, whether you like it or not. And I'm well aware that you might not like it. In fact, I fully expect your next letter to be full of reprimands and lectures about how you can take care of yourself and you don't need me to look out for you, thank you very much. And that's fine — lecture away, love. Just know that I'm still planning to have your back from here on out anyway. You can't shake me.

I took a few minutes just now to re-read your last letter, Hermione, and I've got to argue with you on one point. You couldn't possibly miss me as much as I miss you. Let's face facts: I snore. I've got sweaty feet, and I'm told that when I go a long time without eating, I can be somewhat irritable. I can hardly see how any of these traits would inspire longing. You, on the other hand, are brilliant, beautiful, caring, strong, energetic, sweet, sexy and — most important — *all mine.* Oh, and you smell good, have I mentioned that? All very miss-able qualities indeed. *Gods,* I miss you. Mostly I miss just talking to you — though I know you won't believe that. You're right to be skeptical. Granted, I miss snogging you, too. But honestly, Hermione, if I had a knut for every time I found myself wanting to ask you what you think about something, or just wanting to hear your voice … I reckon that after all these years, I've gotten used to having you by my side, that's all. Especially at times like this, when I'm being pushed to the limits of what I think I can do.

It's almost lights-out, so I should probably wrap this thing up and Summon an International Owl so it has a fighting chance of getting to you in time for your birthday. I'm gutted that I can't be there to wish you many happy returns in person, honey, but I do hope the year ahead is a bright one. No one — aside from perhaps Harry, I think — deserves a peaceful year more than you do. I prefer to think about where we will be around the time of your birthday *next* year. Hopefully we'll be together or at least in the same bleeding time zone. That would be nice.

I'm so fired up to think that you will be back on British soil next week. Even if we can't be near one another just yet, at least I'll know that your Owls will arrive in a timely manner. Your letters make my whole day, Hermione, I hope you know that. Write soon.

With all my love,

Ron.

P.S. — Harry says you should write to him more often, by the way. I told him I'd pass it along — but don't! Don't waste a minute writing to Harry when you could be writing to me. Understood? Good.

oooOOOooo

19 September 1998  
Yarranabbe Road  
Darling Point  
Sydney

Oh, Ronald —

The flowers you sent! They're *gorgeous,* darling — and so many! I've never seen such a profusion of deep red roses in one vase in my life. I think my parents were rather taken aback by the sheer size of the arrangement, but I couldn't have been more thrilled. They're lovely, truly. I shouldn't admit this, but I've never received roses before. A girl could get used to this sort of thing.

Your flowers have been the highlight of my birthday, darling — which isn't to say that my parents haven't tried to make it a special day for me but, my goodness, we're so busy. The house is finally all packed up and our flight for London leaves at 10 o'clock tomorrow. Before we leave, I intend to Vanish your roses to Cambridge and to place a Freshening charm on them for good measure so they'll be there waiting for me when I return. I do love them so.

What with all the packing, there's hardly been time for celebrating today, though we did have a scrummy birthday dinner tonight at an Italian restaurant down the road and I drank a few glasses of red wine. I confess I'm nearly boggled at the moment, so I can't be held responsible for what I might write!

Ron, the time I've spent with my parents here in Australia has been very good and very healing, but I am so looking forward to heading home — though even Cambridge will feel temporary to me. I won't truly be home until I am with you again, at your side, as I hope to be forevermore. I'm a bit tipsy so perhaps I should stop writing before I say something I'll later regret, but … oh, Ron … we will be together forever someday, won't we? Please promise me we will. I can hardly wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Do you mind my being so bold as to say so?

Tipsily yours,

Hermione.

oooOOOooo

22 September 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Dear Hermione,

Even though it's nearly lights-out and I'm dog tired, I've got to put quill to parchment and use what little time and energy I have left to set you straight on this one thing: In the letter you wrote on your birthday, which just landed this morning, you actually sounded like you think I might not want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Let me put that ridiculous idea to rest right now.

Hermione Jean Granger, I consider it a bloody miracle that you want to spend the rest of your life with me and, if you do indeed decide to spend your time on Earth in that way, I'll consider myself the luckiest man in Creation. Do you understand?

There. Now that that's settled, I've got to hit the sack. Field tests tomorrow.

Good night, love …

Ron.

oooOOOooo

28 September 1998  
Sedley Taylor Road  
Cambridge

Dearest Ronald,

I owe you a very long letter, but I have to confess that I may be too tuckered out tonight to write one. My first day in Kingsley's office was so exciting, but it was also exhausting. I guess I had been expecting to sort of ease into the job, but Kingsley had other ideas. There's just so much to be done!

Kingsley has an enormous job ahead of him — I'm just glad I'll be able to be of assistance to him, even if it's only in a small way. Today he had me come along with him to a full meeting of the Wizengamot. Then we Portkeyed to Upper Flagley, where he gave opening remarks before the first meeting of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission that is being formed there to help residents recover from the damage done to their community by the war. Then we were off to a debriefing with Ministry Intelligence, who gave him an update on the ongoing efforts to track and apprehend several Death Eaters who are still at-large.

Tomorrow Kingsley will take me to meet with the Justice Department's chief litigator to review the progress they're making in the prosecution of the Death Eaters already in custody. It's a grueling schedule — nothing, of course, to what you and Harry are going through, and I reminded myself of that every time I felt my energy flag today, darling. I love you so much, and I'm so proud of the hard work you're doing there at St. Agnes.

I'm thrilled to be back home and doing some good, Ron. All this activity hasn't diminished the pain of being away from you. But at least the pain feels useful now, if you know what I mean. We're both doing what we're doing for a reason — to help restore the wizarding world to order. It's good to be busy, to have a purpose, and to know that everything we're doing now will help make this world a safer place for everyone we care about, and for generations to come.

Well, I sounded quite noble and high-minded for a minute there, didn't I? Well, beneath all the idealistic and grandiose talk, Ron, I'm still just me, missing you like crazy and counting the days until we can be together again. We've just over a month to go. Oh, it feels like an eternity…

Your own,

Hermione.

P.S. — My parents so enjoyed having Sunday dinner at The Burrow this weekend. Our Mums disappeared for a while — no doubt gossiping about us — and so our fathers took that as their opportunity to walk down to your Dad's shed, with me tagging along. They were in heaven, Dad explaining the intricacies of a muggle electric toothbrush that your father had found, and your Dad explaining the rules of Quidditch, which quite fascinates my father. It was nice to see all four of them hit it off so well.

oooOOOooo

10 October 1998  
St. Agnes Island

My love,

It's been a long day today and I won't lie — I'm not in a cheery mood. I miss you like mad. I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm sore. I'm knackered. This day started before dawn with a 10-mile run and ended just an hour ago with a joyful slog through the obstacle course while hexes were being thrown at us from all directions. At midday, we had written and oral tests on defensive strategy. And dinner was corned beef. The worst.

There were only two bright spots for me today. One was that Kingsley stopped by to sort of review the troops, so to speak, and he took me aside afterward to tell me how brilliantly you're doing there at the Ministry. Nearly busted my buttons hearing it, love, honestly. Still, I couldn't help but feel a bit cheesed off at the idea that you've been home for all these weeks now, and Kingsley gets to see you every day and I don't.

The only other bright spot, love, was knowing that I'm that much closer to being with you again, even if it's only for a weekend. The only question is where. Let's start working out a plan, sweetheart, because having some details in mind will help me get through these next few weeks without you. You name the place and I'll be there, Hermione.

I can hardly keep my eyes open, I'm so exhausted. So I'll just close this here and promise to write something sappier and smuttier next time. Until then, love, just know that I wish you were here with me right now. If I could only curl up with you in my arms, I could forget my troubles and fall asleep without a care in the world. More soon …

Love,

Ron.

P.S. — I know you're excited about the new job with Kingsley, my love, but you are taking care of yourself aren't you? Getting your rest? Eating right? Letting the Aurors look after you? I'd worry about you overworking yourself even in normal times. But now, with Death Eaters still on the loose, I have to worry about your safety, too. I know it's a drag to have an Auror following you when you're away from the Ministry but, damn it, it's necessary — at least for the time being. Please let them do their job, Hermione. I need you to stay safe until I can get back there and keep you safe myself, all right?

oooOOOooo

11 October 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Dear Hermione,

I probably should have burnt that last letter rather than send it to you. I was steamed when I wrote it, but it wasn't the kind of thing that lingers. I don't want you to think that I'm miserable here because, other than missing you, I'm really not. Things are going well. And that's part of the problem.

You see, I got into a bit of a to-do yesterday with another recruit. For the record, I didn't start it — not the physical part, anyway. And before you start jumping to conclusions that I'm in trouble or about to get drummed out the Corps or whatnot, don't worry. Everything's fine.

I wouldn't mention it at all except that Harry swore he'd tell you about it himself if I didn't. Not the fight itself — he doesn't give a rip about that. No, he threatened to tell you about what started it. So now I reckon I have to come clean.

You see, there are these two gits on our team — Noble and Thayer. Remember them? Ravenclaws. Anyway, they've been on Harry's case since Day One, always going on about him getting special treatment and the instructors going easy on him and all that. Which is bollocks, of course. Harry's working his arse off, and he certainly doesn't expect to get a free ride from anybody. Well, I don't need to tell *you* that though, do I. Anyway, as you've probably guessed, St. Agnes is a pretty competitive place. We all know that only half of us will be selected to move on to the Camden training program next semester, and that only half of *those* recruits will likely graduate from the program next May. So everybody's pretty obsessed with their personal scores — and, for better or worse, those scores are announced every day at lunchtime. It's excruciating.

As you might expect of a guy who was basically forced from an early age to become a Defense Against the Dark Arts specialist, Harry's consistently been at or near the top of the class all along. So, I suppose if you didn't know Harry — and if you were an insensitive gobshite who hasn't paid attention to a goddamned thing that's happened in the last seven fucking years — you might think the drill instructors were throwing rose petals at Harry's feet rather than what they're actually doing, which is riding him *harder* than the rest just to prove they're not playing favorites. In fact, I'm pretty sure the reason I'm outranking Harry in the scoring right now is precisely that — they're actually working Harry to the bone. They're testing him to be sure he can hold up, that the war didn't break him or some nonsense like that. It's mental, but that's what it's about. And Harry, of course, just bashes on and tries not to let the pressure get him down.

Anyway, this dolt Noble made a — well, let's just call it an unkind remark — about Harry's score, and let's just say that I shared my thoughts on the subject. And maybe I stood up and got a little closer to the sawed-off little prick than I should have to underscore my blinking point. I enjoy the view of him from that height, that's all. Well, one thing led to another. Noble gave me a bust to the chops. He would have liked to punch me in the nose, I think, but the little wretch can't quite reach that high. (I don't know what it is, love, but lately people seem to like to punch me in the face.) I, of course, punched him back. Hard. And so on.

Both Noble and I pulled predawn sentry duty this morning as punishment, which was delightful as it was raining chair-legs, but I couldn't say I really regretted it. Somebody had to shut those two plonkers up, and I was glad to volunteer for the job.

Harry, for his part, seemed pretty amused by the whole thing — and that's why he said he'd tell you all about it if I didn't. He seemed to think this was the kind of thing you ought to know, though I haven't a blessed idea why. Seems like the kind of performance that would have earned me a long and loud lecture from you back in our Hogwarts days. But there you have it. That's what happened.

And that brings me to the part that Harry really wanted you to know: I'm at the top of the class, and have been for some time, I reckon. I figured you'd find out about it maybe later, if I'm lucky enough to actually graduate in May. Until then, I thought it best to keep it to myself, you know? Didn't want to jinx myself, and I also didn't want to disappoint you if I couldn't keep these scores up, because other than working so hard that I literally collapse into my bunk every night from exhaustion, I have no idea how I've managed to keep up a scoring streak like this for quite this long. Harry and I switched between being No. 1 and No. 2 on the list on and off for the first few weeks — and he's still outscoring me in Defense class and probably always will — but yeah, I'm just bigger than he is, I guess, and that means I've been doing slightly better in some of the other categories. So I've been No. 1 for a couple of weeks now. He reckons it's no surprise that we're at the top of the class, though, given what we've been up to these past few years, and I guess he's got a point. But, whatever. It is what it is. I only wish insufferable fucktrumpets like Noble and Thayer could get it through their heads that Harry and I came into this training a bit more prepared than most — and that we don't think we're anything special just because we're the only ones who were chased around for months by a homicidal mega-wizard.

I can't help but think that if you'd been there in the mess hall yesterday when Noble said what he said, I wouldn't have had to lift a finger because you would have cursed that twat in some amazingly creative way before I even had a chance to open my mouth. You are, after all, the girl who had the nerve to set fire to Severus Snape, and don't think I've forgotten it.

So now you know part of the reason why I was such a curmudgeon in my last letter. But really, the biggest thing is that I miss you, Hermione. I know I've said it a million times by now, but it's no less true now than it was on the day I left you in Australia. I live for the day when I can return to you for good and never leave your side again. Sigh…

Once again, it's nearly lights-out, so I'll end this here.

Sleep well, my love …

Ron.

oooOOOooo

20 October 1998  
Sedley Taylor Road  
Cambridge

Darling,

You'll be happy to know that I have finally hit upon a plan for your Halloween leave. I will not divulge any details except for these:

1) The quill enclosed with this parchment is a Portkey set to activate at 6 p.m. Friday, 30 October, half an hour after you are dismissed for weekend leave. Hopefully that will give you enough time to get out of the assembly hall and back to your bunk to get changed and get your things sorted.

2) This Portkey will take you to a location that will remain undisclosed until your arrival. Don't even bother trying to pry that information out of me. It's a secret, and it will stay that way until you arrive.

3) When you land at said location, you find that you are at the bottom of a staircase. Climb it. At the top, you'll find a red door. It will be unlocked. Enter. And that, my love, is all that I will say on the matter.

I can hardly believe it is only 10 days until we will see each other again. I am counting the minutes.

All my love …

Hermione.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I would very much like to commission an artist to do illustrations to accompany the fics I've written so far — most especially my first one, "All In." Sadly, so many of the artists whose work I enjoy so much on Tumblr (Atalienart and UpTheHill in particular) say they are no longer taking commissions. Wah! So, dear readers, I'm wondering: Are there any Romione-friendly artists you would recommend? Please let me know._

 _In the meantime, how are you liking this story? Please leave a review and let me know. I thrive on your feedback. And if you're enjoying this read, why not share it with other Romioneheads?_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	10. Chapter 10: Anticipation

**Chapter 10: Anticipation**

Ron could barely contain himself during the Friday evening assembly, squirming with impatience as each new speaker rose to the lectern to review some aspect of the previous week's training or to lay out goals for the next few weeks.

He knew he wasn't the only one eyeing the giant clock in the corner of the hall. As the minute hand slowly, painfully ticked toward 5:30 p.m., Ron could feel the excitement rippling through the room.

Finally, *mercifully,* the bell rang, and it was all Ron and Harry could do to keep ahead of the crush of recruits rushing toward the double doors, all seeking escape from the assembly at once. Breaking through the passageway, Harry and Ron found themselves outside in the early evening air and, after giving each other a laughing nod, broke out at a full run toward their barracks. Harry's destination that night was Hogsmeade. Ron's was still unknown to him, but he didn't care. Hermione would be there, wherever it was, and that was all he needed to know.

Inside their quarters was a scene of controlled pandemonium, as recruits scrambled to gather their things and say quick farewells before hurrying toward the Apparition Zone just outside the Auror compound's wards. Unlike the rest of them, however, Ron had a 6 o'clock Portkey and knew he had a bit of time to gather his thoughts and straighten himself up before heading off.

"See you bright and early Monday morning," Harry said, clapping Ron on the back as he tossed his rucksack over his shoulder.

"Can't wait a second longer to see my sister, eh?" Ron said with an amused smirk.

"I could say the same to you," Harry replied as he reached for his jacket and waved his wand toward his trunk to lock it. "Hermione's just as much my sister as Ginny is yours."

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. "Fair enough," he said. "Well … you know … be good to her, all right?"

Harry paused and, suddenly serious, stepped toward Ron and gave him a small punch to the shoulder. "No worries, mate," he said softly, and then, with a nod and a slight smile, strode toward the door.

Suddenly, Ron was alone. Taking advantage of the few minutes he had to spare before the quill was activated, he changed out of his training robes and pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, a light blue dress shirt, a navy wool suit jacket — just some of the clothes that Hermione had picked out for him on a shopping trip to a muggle high street the previous summer. He liked the feeling of wearing things that were new and not hand-me-downs — and that fit him for once in his life. Better still was the feeling of having paid for them himself, with his Order of Merlin prize funds. He examined himself in the full-length mirror at the far end of the recruits' quarters and had to admit to himself that he didn't look half bad. He laughed at himself — when had he ever cared about such things before? — but he couldn't help it. Tonight of all nights, he wanted to look presentable at the very least. It was important.

He flipped open his trunk to be sure he hadn't overlooked anything, pausing for a moment to admire the rather large stack of letters which he had saved and tied up neatly with one of Hermione's hair ribbons. The rest of his trunk was a jumble, but he liked to keep her letters tidy and organized — the better for re-reading them. He touched his chest, unconsciously checking for the umpteenth time that his favorite letter, the one he now liked to carry with him at all times when he could, was there — and it was, comfortingly folded within the confines of his inner breast pocket:

oooOOOooo

25 October 1998  
An Undisclosed Location — So Don't Try To Wheedle It Out Of Me

Darling,

I had a dream last night. A good one this time.

We were at The Peak again.

It was a strange dream, because it was just as I had lived it in real life. The only thing that was different was that, at times, things moved more or less in slow motion, which was wonderful, actually, because it allowed me to relive the experience and pay closer attention to things that I wanted to savor but perhaps couldn't because I was sometimes doing battle with my own nerves that day. It was thrilling but also a bit frightening to show myself then, to share myself in that way, though even then I knew deep down that I truly had nothing much to worry about. You did a fine job of reassuring me that you'd think I was pretty no matter what.

So, in the dream, I was able to lay back and experience little details of that day all over again. Like, for instance, the moment you peeled your shirt off and tossed it aside. You didn't seem to think much of it — you simply wanted to be rid of the encumbrance, I think — but the sight of your bare skin … your chest … your arms made me gasp. I'd seen you in such a state before, of course, but never in broad daylight and never in a moment when I was at liberty to stare openly at you for so long and take you all in. You are so beautifully made, Ronald Weasley, all fine bone and lean muscle wrapped in skin the color of Devonshire cream. And there's something about the way your shoulder curves so gracefully down, making a slight indentation before flowing further downward to form your upper arm and then your elbow … anatomically speaking, I'm talking about the conjunction of your deltoid muscle with your biceps brachii, but, well … anyway, it takes my breath away, and it did that day at The Peak, as well. I laid there, watching the sunlight glinting off that very curve, and longed to run my hand over it … and then it dawned on me: I could! I could touch you there whenever I wanted now, and it would be all right. And so I did, enjoying the contrast of my slightly darker fingers against your smooth, freckled skin, the way the fine coppery hairs of your arms shimmered, backlit as they were by the midday sun, the way that delicious curve of your shoulder flexed as you drew your arm around my waist and gathered me to you, kissing me deeply so that my vision was obscured, replaced by the sensation of touch and smell and sound as you raised yourself above me and moaned into my mouth.

Oh, my love, what a lovely day it was, and what a lovely dream. When did our lives become a dream?

You come to me in my dreams, my love, most every night. But how ardently I await the day when you come to me, flesh and blood. Come to me, my darling, and make me your own, forever and ever.

xoxo,

Your one true love.

oooOOOooo

Smiling at the memory of the letter — for he didn't need to re-read it to recall its contents, having committed nearly every word to memory — Ron riffled through the leather weekender duffle that Hermione had given him, checking one more time to be sure he had everything he needed for a weekend that he expected would change his life, and hers.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— This chapter was a shortie, I know, and I also know that I'm messing with your heads a bit, but I can't help myself! Savor the anticipation, people, and trust that there will be more very soon!_

 _In the meantime, enjoy this little snippet and do review, won't you?_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	11. Chapter 11: Behind The Red Door

**Chapter 11: Behind The Red Door**

Ron landed, as Hermione had told him he would, at the base of a long stairway. What she hadn't told him was that the stairway was surrounded by a lush garden, full to bursting with shrubbery. But unlike his Mum's back garden in Devon, this one was walled-in and snug, with a winding stone path that connected the staircase before him to a rather enormous brick house within the same walled compound some distance away. But Hermione had told him to climb the staircase, so he turned and took it in: Freshly painted forest green wooden steps that clung to the side of what appeared to be the second story of a sizable brick carriage house. Ron's eyes followed the staircase upward and there, at the top, was a small roofed-over porch with a swinging bench and, in the light of a lantern, there also stood the promised red door.

Ron took the stairs quietly two at a time, and chuckled softly at the parchment pinned to the lacquered door, in Hermione's neat script: "Entrez, s'il vous plaît."

He looked around before doing so, wanting for reasons he didn't entirely understand to drink in every detail of the scene around him. From this height, he could see that just beyond the walled garden lay a giant pond edged by dark expanse of green and then, visible against the dim sky of a crisp October evening at the far edge of this parkland, the lights of a vast city. London. Was he in London? He couldn't quite get his bearings. Still, he liked what he saw, and took a deep breath of the gentle breeze blowing about him, noting the smell of damp leaves and recent rain. Then he tilted his ear toward the doorway, listening for a sign that Hermione was within — but none came. Shrugging, he pulled the parchment from the door and, folding it, tucked it into his breast pocket next to his favorite letter, then reached for the door latch and slowly pushed his way inside, noticing then that music was playing softly — piano music he recognized, by a muggle chap named Gershwin whom Hermione had always liked very much.

"Hermione?" he said at just above a whisper, casting his eyes about the candlelit room. A delicious, homey smell met him, then — something savory and oniony and delightful, mingled with the scent of fresh-baked bread — and he eased himself through he doorway and into the small alcove that made up the entryway. He sealed the door behind him shut with his wand and called out a bit louder this time, "Hermione, love?"

That's when he caught, out the corner of his eye, a movement across the wide and sparsely furnished lounge beyond the alcove. He gazed in that direction and there she was, framed in a doorway opposite him: Hermione, wearing — wait, what *was* she wearing?

She stepped forward into the warm light of the hearth and the candles placed throughout the lounge, her skin aglow, her hair loose but tamed somehow into curls that spilled about her shoulders. She was cloaked in a wine-colored dressing gown composed of some sort of satiny material that shimmered in the firelight as Ron drank in the sight of her.

"Welcome home, Ronald," Hermione murmured, her tightly clasped hands the only outward sign that she might be a tad nervous. Ron dropped his leather duffel, which he had quite forgotten he was carrying, on the polished wood floor and stepped toward her tentatively. Then he stepped again — and again — until he couldn't hold himself back anymore and launched himself toward her, sweeping her into his arms and capturing her lips with his. It was then he noticed that her cheeks were wet with tears, and he kissed her skin hungrily, pressing her face between his hands as he did so.

"Oh, Mione, love," he murmured against her cheeks as he kissed his way from her lips to her temple and then downward to the column of her neck, returning one arm to her back and pulling her to him by the waist as she clutched his shoulders firmly. "Gods, are you real?"

She hummed something that sounded like a yes and also a bit like a sob as she pressed herself more firmly against him. "Are you, Ron?" she whispered huskily next to his ear. "Are *you* real?"

He laughed softly at this and pressed her tightly to him, knowing she would feel the unmistakable and growing proof that he was indeed quite real.

"Oh, Ron," she said breathlessly, pulling her shoulders back a bit from his and looking up into his face, her eyes still brimming with tears. "You … I … I want …" Seeming to lose the thread of her own thoughts, Hermione shook her head slightly and then, eyes locked on his lips, she took him quite by surprise and crushed her mouth to his, kissing him deeply as she strapped her arms quite securely around his neck.

Ron responded enthusiastically, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth and tightening his grip on her waist, her moan of pleasure the only signal he needed to break free from the kiss and scoop her into his arms.

She reached with one arm to push the door behind them open more fully, and Ron stepped through to see that it was, as he had bloody well hoped, a lantern-lit bedroom equipped with a very, very large bed. He moved toward it swiftly, heart beating wildly, and laid Hermione sideways on it, climbing in above her as she scrambled madly to push his suit jacket off his shoulders. He helped her, shimmying the garment off and flinging it to a nearby chair while kicking off his shoes. Then he climbed atop her and returned his lips to hers while running his hands up and down her arms and shoulders, her waist and her bum, enjoying the feel of her firm, warm flesh beneath the silkiness of her gown. Hermione, meanwhile, tugged at the fabric of his dress shirt, pulling it from his jeans and plunging her hands beneath it to stroke the smooth skin of his back. Ron moaned in response.

She was really here, and so was he. This was really happening. After dreaming of it, fantasizing about it, for so long, Hermione was finally in his arms, safe and whole. How many times had he held himself back, not wanting to take advantage of her grief, not wanting to intrude on time she needed to spend elsewhere, not wanting to push her to do anything she wasn't prepared to do. And now … now it seemed as if he might not have to hold back any longer. Even as her hands roved up and down his back, and then forward to unbutton his shirt, he found himself marveling at the thought that this was really happening, he wasn't imagining it. He was there, blessedly and entirely alone with the girl of his dreams, who was lying beneath him and welcoming his every touch.

Hermione, likewise, was boggled by the realization that this long-awaited reunion was finally, really, honestly happening. Ron was here — and he was hers — and she could have him, all of him, if she wanted. There were no missions yet to fulfill that might be upended if she allowed herself this pleasure. There was no grief that needed attending to — at least not at the moment. There were no family members nearby who might object, no one else's sensibilities to consider, no restrictions whatsoever. No, Ron was there, as vivid and real and alive and enthusiastic as any man could be, and she simply … knew. She'd been nervous earlier in the day, not sure how far she wanted all this to go that night, but she had told herself that she would decide in the moment. And the moment was here. She knew. She was ready.

She pulled back and looked at him then, and smiled at the sight of him — lips somewhat swollen and chest heaving from their reckless snogging, cinnamon-colored hair disheveled, blue eyes shining brightly in the dim lantern light as he lifted himself a bit to take her in. "I love you so much," she said through a teary smile. "I love you so much, Ronald Weasley."

"I love you, Hermione," he replied from above her with a sincere, sober expression that caused her heart to throb almost painfully. "I wish there were some other way to say it," he added. "Those three little words don't seem like enough sometimes."

Hermione's smile widened slightly and, feeling her cheeks heat up, she averted her gaze to Ron's chest, where her hands had paused in the process of undoing his shirt buttons. She bit her lower lip and, as Ron's eyes followed hers, slowly unfastened another button and then the next, feeling the warmth of his gaze on her skin.

"There is another way for you to say it," she whispered, looking up at him almost shyly through her lashes.

Her heart fluttered when she felt his body respond involuntarily to her words, but she carried on unbuttoning until his shirt was fully undone and his chest, the planes of which were more pronounced and shapely than she remembered, came into view in the warm light of the lantern next to the bed. She flattened her hands against his torso and felt its contours, firmer and more defined than ever before, and took in a shaky breath.

Ron was aware that Auror training had changed his body, and his heart warmed that Hermione seemed pleased by it. Leaning back, he rolled off and knelt beside her, removing the shirt first by one sleeve and then the other and tossing it atop his suitcoat nearby. He tried not to smile too broadly at the little gasp Hermione let out in response, choosing instead to stay as still as possible as she propped herself up on one elbow beside him and reached out to run her free hand over the very shoulder muscles that she had described so eloquently in her letter to him. And yet, he knew, those muscles looked very different now, and as her eyes roved over his chest, his own eyes traveled to hers, where the wine-colored satin of her gown plunged in a deep V, revealing the tantalizing curve of her breast.

She tilted her face up to him then, and he bent slightly to meet it, fitting his mouth gently over hers. She let out a long hum, creating a pleasant buzzing sensation against his lips. He was happy to continue kissing her this way, quite innocently and from a bit of a distance, lightly grazing his lips from side to side over hers and waiting for her to lead him wherever she happened to want to go. Not long thereafter, he felt the warm tip of her tongue peek out. He leaned closer to her, deepening the kiss, and was disappointed for a moment to feel her break her lips away from his. When he opened his eyes, however, he saw that she had laid down on her back beneath him and was looking up at him with an expression he'd never quite seen on her face before. She was aglow, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. She reached for his hand and led it to the satin sash of her gown. Following her wordless invitation, he grasped one end of the satin tie and was about to pull gently to open it — but then he paused.

"I feel like I'm about to unwrap the most fantastic present I've ever received in my entire life," he whispered, his lips curling into a half-smile.

Hermione was so overwhelmed with competing emotions at this statement that all she could manage was a little laugh as she caressed the hand still poised at her waist. Before she could say or do more, Ron reached for his wand and pointed it toward his discarded suitcoat. "I reckon I ought to give you something in return," he said with a small flick of his wrist, and Hermione raised herself up onto her elbows in time to see the jacket rustle in its place on the chair as a small red box emerged from its front pocket. The little box Levitated across the room and landed in Ron's hand, and that was when she could discern that the box was square and velvet-covered. Ron, still kneeling beside Hermione, stowed his wand on the side table and turned back to face Hermione, the cheeky grin of a few moments earlier replaced by a look of utmost seriousness, his ears colored a telltale pink.

"This is for you," he said quietly, placing the box on the palm of his hand and extending it toward Hermione, who sat up straighter and tucked her feet beneath her bum, eyes wide and heart hammering in her chest so frantically that she thought Ron might hear it.

"For me?" she squeaked, her eyes darting from the box to his face and back again.

Hermione took a fortifying breath and, almost as it did in her dream of The Peak, the action before her seemed to slow down a tidge, as if the world had obligingly agreed to spin a bit less swiftly on its axis for her benefit, so she could catch up and inscribe every detail of the scene in her mind. She reached for the box, so tiny in Ron's broad palm, and lifted it in both of her shaking hands, even as pools of tears began to obscure the edges of her vision.

Tentatively, she pried the little box open and, with a gasp of genuine surprise, she found nestled there, in a red velvet cushion, the most stunning diamond ring she had ever seen — one large square-cut stone in the center, flanked by two slightly smaller ones, set in a silvery-colored metal that she guessed was white gold, though she was never quite sure of such things, with a band etched in a pattern of intricately twisted ivy vines. She blinked rapidly, causing the tears pooling in her eyes to spill over onto her cheeks.

"Hermione Granger, will you marry me?" Ron said quietly.

The sound of his voice drew Hermione's eyes upward to his face, and the warmth and sincerity in his eyes made her chest flutter. Anyone who didn't know Ron as well as she did would have read his expression as one of pure devotion and total exultation, but in that weird state of decelerated time that she was experiencing, Hermione — who knew Ron better than anyone other than perhaps Harry — could also discern in his eyes a remote flicker of doubt. He wasn't sure she'd say yes! The thought made her heart crack a bit and mend itself almost as quickly as she heard herself saying, as if she were observing herself from a vantage point several yards above them, "Yes, Ronald Weasley, yes. I'd be honored to marry you."

At that, the world returned to its regular rhythm as Ron let out an explosive breath and, laughing, threw his arms around Hermione and pulled her close so that they were both kneeling on the bed as he showered kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her eyes, her jawline and finally her lips — while Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand still clutching the pretty little box, and murmured his name again and again.

Words were superfluous at this moment, though Ron kept up a steady stream of them — "Gods, I love you so much," "I promise, you'll never regret it, love," "you're so, so beautiful," "I'm so happy" — interspersed with an incessant torrent of kisses as he joyfully lowered her to the bed. It was all Hermione could do to keep up with him, laughing and crying happy tears as she pulled him closer and planted kisses on his neck and shoulders. "I love you too, darling," she breathed between kisses. "Oh, Ron."

It was only then that it dawned on Ron that Hermione still held the little red box in her hand.

"Hang on," he said, rolling to one side to lean on his elbow next to her. "Allow me," he continued, taking the box from her grasp and withdrawing the ring, which he slipped onto her trembling fingers with a steady grip that rather surprised Hermione, given the flicker of ancient uncertainty she had detected in his eyes only minutes before. She was pleased to see the adorable half-grin had returned to his face in its place.

"Put this on, love…" he said, sliding the ring over her knuckle before taking a moment to admire it there. And then, reaching once again for the sash of her gown, "…and take this off," he continued, his cheeky grin widening slightly.

He tugged the sash gently, catching his breath as the fabric parted, for beneath this shimmering, burgundy covering, all Hermione wore was a petite pair of knickers in the same fabric.

She shivered slightly, not from cold but from nerves. The gobsmacked look on Ron's face soon quelled her fears, however.

"Mione," he croaked, then swallowed hard — an action that seemed to restore his voice. "You're so, so beautiful, Hermione."

She smiled and touched the side of his face with her fingertips. "You're beautiful too, you know."

Ron let out a little huff of a laugh and leaned over her, still propped on one elbow. He shook his head almost in disbelief, eyes roving up and down the length of her body. She responded by threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he followed her lead, dipping low to taste her neck, then her collarbone, then the soft swell of her breasts as the fingers of his free hand traced her belly and then sank beneath the waistband of her knickers. She arched her back instinctively as his lips clamped down first on one nipple, then the other, and as waves of warmth began to radiate throughout her body, she wondered for a fleeting moment where he had learned to do what he was doing — had it been Lavender, perhaps? Tonight, of all nights, she decided she simply didn't care anymore — whether this knowledge was the natural result of having five older brothers or from some previous experience, it didn't really matter, did it. She was wearing his ring. Burying her face in the space between his neck and his shoulder, she decided everything else was unimportant for the time being.

"Don't be shy, love," he whispered next to her ear. "It's just you and me now. Let go now, Mione. Let me love you."

And she did, gripping his shoulder firmly, back arched, as her pulse pounded out her release.

Hermione barely had time to recover when Ron was kissing her again, his tongue darting forcefully next to hers. Taking her hand in his, he guided it to his zip. Still recovering her breath from her high, she unbuttoned his fly and tugged his zip downward, and soon, in a frenzy of movement, they worked together to yank his jeans and pants off of him. Her gown was still draped about her shoulders, but he rather eagerly helped her shed it, as well as her knickers, and soon — after a few reassuring flicks of her wand to activate the Contraception charm — she was happily pinned beneath him again, savoring the feeling of his weight pressing her to the mattress.

Hermione shifted her legs slightly and, just like that, Ron sank between them and felt her warmth against his hardness, and he felt a shudder of anticipation ripple through his body. "Are you ready, love?" he asked, rubbing his nose alongside hers and praying she wouldn't tell him she wasn't.

"I am," she whispered against his lips.

That was all Ron needed to hear. He took a moment to position himself. "If you … I mean, stop me if … if this hurts at all, all right?"

"I will."

"Promise?"

She nodded, her nose still angled next to his.

He kissed her again on the lips, softly this time. "I love you so much. Forever."

She sniffled and Ron pressed forward as gently as he could. The words from her mind-blowing letter floated through his mind: _Come to me, my darling, and make me your own, forever and ever._ And the thought gave him the courage to carry on, despite his fear of hurting her. He pulled back a mite and tried again, a bit more firmly this time. Hermione looped her arms around his shoulders and opened wider, willing herself to relax. And somehow, she she did, and Ron sank slowly in, marveling at the feeling of warmth enveloping him even as Hermione was awed by the sensation of fullness as their bodies became one, only the sound of their breathing and the swoosh of the trees swaying in the breeze outside breaking the silence that had filled the room. A moment later, there was some brief resistance, but that eased and, a few heartbeats later, they were fully one.

Propping himself on his elbows, Ron whispered, "You OK?"

"I'm more than OK," she answered, running her hands from his shoulders down the slope of his back. "I'm in heaven. Please, don't stop."

Ron was only too happy to oblige, moving tentatively at first and then more forcefully as Hermione clasped her hands to his buttocks, urging him on.

He could hardly believe, after all the years of fantasizing about this moment, that it was actually happening — and yet, it most definitely was. He and Hermione were making love — making *love.* It was mind-boggling. They might not be married, but they might as well have been as far as Ron was concerned. He was absolutely, positively hers for as long as she'd have him, and he would be her willing slave if she would only allow him to do this again and again for the rest of his life. Wildly and inexplicably, a memory flashed in his mind of watching "The Princess Bride," Hermione's favorite muggle movie, one summer with her on a muggle TV set that his Dad had wired up inside his shed, and he laughed inwardly at the thought that he finally fully and completely understood what would make the hero of the movie willing to say "as you wish" in answer to his lady's every whim. He'd always been willing to do just about anything for Hermione, but if making love to her was to be his reward…

He lost his train of thought then, because Hermione had run her hands up his back and to his face, which she clasped firmly, pulling his lips to hers and kissing him deeply. Before long, Ron felt a surge of heat consume him and he moaned into her mouth, losing himself as the waves of the most powerful orgasm of his life crashed over him.

Not long after, he collapsed on his side next to her and pulled her close, gasping for breath.

"Are you OK?" he panted as she curled herself up next to him and caressed his chest.

"Mmm," she answered with a tearful smile. "I'm wonderful, darling, honestly. That was wonderful."

He caressed her cheek. "It was."

She nodded.

They laid there face-to-face, staring into one another's eyes, though neither could say for how long.

"Mione," Ron breathed after a time, shaking his head as if to clear it. Still stroking her cheek, he continued, "Did you really say you'd marry me, that you'd be my wife?"

She bit her lower lip and nodded briskly. "Of course I did."

He clasped her chin in his hand and pressed his lips gently to hers. "Thanks," he said between kisses. "Thanks for saying yes."

"Thanks for asking," she replied. She giggled and toyed with her ring, deciding all over again that she did indeed like it very much. No, she loved it.

A few kisses later, Ron pulled back again. "I've got just one more question for you, love."

"Hmm?"

"Where in bloody hell *are* we?"

At that, Hermione burst out laughing, and soon Ron joined her, and they tumbled about the bed, laughing out loud until tears rolled down their cheeks.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Oh, these two. I've said it before and I'll say it again: They write themselves._

 _Review! Share! Thanks!_


	12. Chapter 12: Extra Sugar

**Chapter 12: Extra Sugar**

"See the house beyond that hedgerow there?"

Ron, standing behind Hermione in the open doorway, tightened his grip on her waist and pulled her close against his chest, shivering slightly in the air of the late October evening despite the warm flannel robe Hermione had presented to him as a welcome home gift. Following the direction of her gaze, he squinted and saw that the giant brick mansion he had spied earlier was now lit up. Someone was inside.

"That's Winks' house," Hermione said. "And this," she continued, gesturing toward the bedroom balcony they were standing on, "is Winks' coachhouse, which used to be servants' quarters. And she's rented it to me — well, to *us,* if you're interested — for as long as we'd like to stay, at a ridiculously low rate, I should add." She wrapped her hands around Ron's forearms and caressed them. "I've been living here for the past week — though there's still much to do to furnish it, especially the lounge."

"Well, you got the only furniture I care about sorted when you brought in the bed, love," he replied, earning himself a joking slap to the back of his hand.

Ron chuckled and looked around, taking in the view, which was indeed marvelous from there within the frame of the giant French doors leading to the balcony. Beyond the snug little coachhouse garden that he'd admired earlier he could now see, as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, a great expanse of lawn that led uphill to the three-story mansion — the word "house" simply wouldn't do — which loomed over another set of gardens and which, despite its size, looked quite approachable and homey. He rested his chin atop Hermione's head. "So that, I presume, is Winks' house?"

"It is."

"And who, may I ask, is Winks?"

At this, Ron's stomach not so much rumbled as roared, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh.  
"I've had your dinner under a warming charm," she said, turning in his arms to face him. "Let's eat and I'll tell you all about it."

She took him by the hand and led him back into the bedroom, the fabric of the much more Hermione-like fluffy white terrycloth dressing gown that she was now wearing slipping from her shoulder as she did.

He gave her hand a tug and she stopped, looking over her bare shoulder up at him, quite unaware until she saw his face that he was thinking of anything other than eating.

"Hey," he said softly. Then he bent to kiss her bare shoulder, and then the back of her neck, before straightening up and returning his gaze to hers. "Thank you. Thank you for getting this place for us."

Her cheeks warmed and she turned to face him, tugging the terrycloth gown back onto her shoulders as she did so. "After everything that's happened," she said, pausing to look down at their joined hands, "after everything we've been through, I just thought it was time we had a place to call our own."

"It's perfect. You did well."

She looked up at him. "You really like it? I felt a bit presumptuous getting it without having you look at it, but—"

"Shh," he answered, pulling her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles. "I said it's perfect. You did well. We're going to have to start believing one another when we say things like that, yeah?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "You're right. Of course, you're right. I'm just glad you like it."

"I don't just like it. I love it."

He pulled her to him then and, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissed her forehead, her nose and, finally, her lips. He was about to deepen the kiss when they were interrupted by another mighty growl of his stomach.

"Come on," Hermione said with a laugh as she tugged him into the lounge and toward the cozy little kitchen. Ron reflexively reached for the potholders on the marble countertop, meaning to help, but Hermione slapped the back of his hand playfully. "Nonsense!" she huffed. "You're home on leave!" She shooed him out of the kitchen and toward the small alcove that served as a dining room, which was just big enough to accommodate a round quarter-sawn oak table and four chairs. "Sit!" she ordered. Ron gave her a mock salute in reply and did as he was told.

It wasn't lost on him that Hermione had prepared all his favorites, just as Molly had taught her — and he shouldn't have been surprised at the results, for his Mum had always been a good teacher, and Hermione had always been a remarkably good student. The chicken and leek pie sported a crust that was every bit as flaky and buttery as his Mum's, and she had made extra helpings of buttered peas knowing that Ron always ate more than his share, and the honey-and-dill carrots were were tender without being mushy. It was without a doubt the best meal he'd eaten since he'd left for St. Agnes, and Hermione watched contentedly as he savored every bite, understanding better than she had before the kind of satisfaction that Molly always seemed to get from feeding her loved ones well.

As they ate, Hermione explained who Winks was: Winifred "Winks" Tidley, the aging heiress to the vast Tidley Wizarding Teas fortune, whom Hermione had met at the Ministry. Kingsley had assembled a Council of Elders, an advisory group of witches and wizards, all of whom seemed positively ancient to Hermione, and all of whom had, by virtue of their advanced age, been more or less on the sidelines in the second wizarding war but who had worked against Voldemort in the first one. Kingsley occasionally sought the Elders' advice, Hermione explained. "He doesn't always take it, mind," she noted as she refilled Ron's flagon of ale. "Some of them are terribly traditional, especially when it comes to certain matters such as elf rights. But many of them are remarkably open-minded, and Winks is one of them."

Winks, she explained, had been especially friendly to Hermione, mainly because she had heard so much about her from Minerva McGonagall, who had been a student at Hogwarts when Winks had spent a brief career teaching Herbology.

"Wait, she's older than McGonagall?" Ron cried over his ale.

"Quite a bit older, I should think, if she was a teacher at Hogwarts when Minerva was a student."

"Blimey, that's old."

"Ronald! Honestly."

Hermione described the invitations she had received to tea at Tidley House — the giant pile of bricks at the top of the hill — and Hermione had indeed happily spent many an hour there, finding the elderly witch to be quite stimulating company despite her advanced years.

"And, well, over the course of my visits, one thing led to another. I told her I was looking for a place — well, that *we* were looking for a place," Hermione said, her cheeks pinking up, "and she told me Tidley Mews was available. When I told her I was considering asking you to live here with me, she didn't even blink. Well, that's not quite true. She *did* blink — but no more rapidly than she normally does. I fear that's how she got the nickname 'Winks.' She blinks almost constantly."

"Pffffftttttt!" Ron sputtered, nearly snorting ale through his nose. He soon recovered with a few sharp slaps to the back from Hermione. "Well that settles it," he rasped through a smile, "I've definitely got to meet Winks Tidley."

"Oh you will soon enough, don't you worry," Hermione said, rising to Levitate the dirty plates to the kitchen. "She's quite determined to meet you. Wants to be sure your intentions are honorable and all that."

Ron laughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Here's hoping your ring will put her mind to rest," he said, smiling wider as Hermione entered the room bearing a heaping platter of treacle tarts.

In the time it took Hermione to be seated next to him and eat one tart, Ron had polished off three — and was reaching for a fourth. "Sweet Merlin, what have I done to deserve this?" he asked.

"You've made me very happy, that's what."

"Wait," he said, pausing to examine the tart in his hand. "Something's different about these."

"Mmm hmm."

"It's something about the crust on top, right? It's crunchier than Mum's."

"Mmm hmm."

"It's sort of like the time …" he said, his voice trailing off as he tried to remember.

"Like the time when your Mum got distracted and accidentally put double the amount of sugar on top."

"Yeah, that's it."

"You liked the tarts better that way, as I recall," she said, lifting her teacup to her lips to hide her smile.

"I loved them that way, but you know Mum and how strict she is about her recipes. I could never get her to make them that way again."

Hermione placed her teacup down with a satisfied grin. "Well, now you can have them that way whenever you like."

Ron was set to bite greedily into the tart in his hand when it hit him, the realization that Hermione had noticed this small thing, this little preference he'd had — blimey, it had to be three years ago — and that she had gone out of her way to do this for him, to make him happy.

He put the tart down on his plate and leaned toward her. "C'mere."

She giggled and drew closer to him, looping her arms around his neck as he took her face in his hands and kissed her. "You taste of molasses and ale," she whispered against his lips after a few minutes of passionate kisses.

"I suppose a bloke could taste of worse things."

"Mmm," she hummed in agreement.

"You taste like tea," he said, dropping his hands to her waist. She giggled against his lips. "Tea and sugar and happiness," he added.

She pulled back at that and looked up at him, a broad smile lighting her face. "I *am* happy. I don't believe I have ever been happier than I am right now."

"Only one thing could make me happier right now, love," said Ron.

"What's that?"

"Snogging you somewhere other than at the dining room table."

"Oh, well then, by all means," she said rising and reaching out a hand to him, "please allow me to give you a guided tour of the remainder of the flat, and then you can have your pick of snogging locales."

She pulled him, laughing, into the lounge. It was indeed still largely unfurnished as she had said — but she positioned a large and comfy-looking red sofa and an overstuffed ottoman in the center of the room and, unsurprisingly, she'd managed to fill the bookshelves flanking the hearth. "Here, look at this," she said, tugging his hand gently and pulling him toward another set of French doors, this one on the wall opposite the hearth. Opening the doors, they stepped out once again into the brisk October night.

"Wow," Ron breathed, for he was well and truly impressed by the sight. He leaned one hand on the balcony railing while pulling Hermione close to his side with the other. "This is amazing, love."

And it was, of course.

"It's Hampstead Heath," Hermione explained as Ron wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. "We're right on the edge of it. Tidley House has an even more magnificent view, but we have quite a splendid vantage point here at the Mews as well. It's a bit too dark to make it out right now, but you'll see in the morning that this balcony overlooks one of the ponds, and from here we're able to see all the way down toward Parliament Hill."

Indeed, the darkness just beyond the balcony, edged by the distant lights, made Ron feel as if he wasn't really in a city at all. "I had no idea there was so much countryside right in the middle of London."

"That's one reason I chose this spot, because I thought it would appeal to you. It's as if someone dropped a little slice of Devon into the center of a giant metropolis."

He kissed her forehead and rested his cheek atop her head.

"And this little stretch, from Tidley House on down to that row of houses to the left there — they're all magical families," she continued. "The Tidley compound here is double-warded, by Winks herself and also by Ministry Security, since Winks is a member of the Wizengamot. I had to write quite a complex Portus charm to let you Portkey in here without being sliced to ribbons."

"Well, thanks for that, love."

"You're quite welcome."

They stood in silence, simply breathing the fresh, green-smelling air and listening to the distant hum of the city.

Ron pulled Hermione that much closer, feeling strangely and profoundly thankful all of a sudden, blinking back tears as he went through the process of counting his blessings, as he had come to do fairly regularly lately. Hermione, after all, was warm and soft and blessedly, vividly healthy by his side. Her parents were alive and settling back into their lives in Cambridge. His own parents, while still grieving the loss of Fred, were together, supporting one another, and slowly healing, as was George, who was finally getting set to reopen the shop. Harry was recovering in his own way, taking advantage of Auror training as a way to focus his energy. And he and Ginny, meanwhile, seemed rock-solid, mad about each other and finally able to act on it.

What he didn't know was that Hermione was going through a similar private inventory, quietly thanking the universe for all the same things.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— I just wanted to have a chapter where these two were simply kind to each other. Because, as I've said elsewhere, I believe Ron and Hermione would be kind to one another now that the misunderstandings between them have been straightened out and the sexual tension is resolved. They're two very different people, and while they are equally formidable in their own ways, they value many of the same things — most of all, *each other.* So I see them as being very sympatico partners, the differences in their personalities balancing one another out and making a cohesive and quite impressive whole._

 _Other writers portray them as continuing to row horribly throughout their lives. I'm sorry - I just don't see it._

 _Anyway, I also always enjoy reading simple domestic scenes involving these two, so I decided to write one. I could watch these two hang wallpaper and still find it interesting, so … anyway … I hope you enjoyed it._

 _There's more to come … please review and share with friends!_

 _Holly._


	13. Chapter 13: Morning

**Chapter 13: Morning**

Upon waking the next morning, it took Ron a few seconds to remember where he was and everything that had happened — but then, it all came flooding back to him. Lying still, eyes shut, he relived and relished every detail of the previous, glorious night.

Hermione had said yes. She had given him her promise — and her body, as well. He could hardly believe it had all been real, but it had been. The warm, soft, fragrant form curled up next to him beneath the pillowy duvet was proof of that.

She had been so sweet and giving the night before, and so passionate as well. He'd had a glimpse of this side of her at The Peak, but he couldn't have guessed then at the depth of ardor that dwelled just beneath the surface of her, how his touch and his voice, his presence alone, could provide the spark that would light such a powerful flame within such an otherwise reserved soul.

But she wasn't always reserved, was she? Now and then, he'd seen hints of that fire in her eyes throughout their Hogwarts years and on the hunt — she could be quick to anger, yes, and she could even be moved to a mighty, righteous wrath on behalf of ideas and people she cared about, and she had known vengeance more than once. But when Hermione transformed that energy into desire — and directed it at him — well, it was very powerful magic indeed.

"Oh, my love," she'd whispered in Ron's ear as he carried her from the balcony overlooking the Heath back to the bedroom, her fingers buried deep in his hair. "I want you forever."

"And I want you," he'd replied, laying her down beneath him on the bed and parting her robe to reveal the creamy expanse of her skin, marked only by the thin white line of the scar from her injury at the Department of Mysteries. He had bent low to kiss it before focusing his attention on her breasts, sucking on one and then the other as she continued to rake her fingers through his hair and down his spine.

She had shifted her hands from his back to his collarbone and pushed forcefully at the lapels of his gray flannel robe, pressing her palms firmly against the planes of his chest, so firmly that he wondered if she could feel the beating of his heart, which was hammering frantically against his ribcage. "I've loved you for so long, Ronald," she whispered between kisses. "So long."

His heart had pounded even more wildly at these words. "Hermione, love," he'd breathed against her neck, unable to say everything that was in his heart for his thoughts were such a jumble. But though he couldn't organize words, he'd *felt* — he'd felt deeply — and the years of suppressed longing, of agonizing doubt, threatened to burst from him as she moved her lips from his mouth to his chin and then to the column of his neck. He'd wanted her for so long that he could hardly remember when it began. He'd only known that he had once felt unworthy — that is, until that night, when she'd said yes, and he resolved to prove to her that her faith in him was well-placed. He'd love her and love her well, for all of his days.

"Gods, Hermione," was all he was capable of uttering in that moment. "Please, please, love, let me show you."

And she *had* let him, shifting so that he could seat himself more firmly against her and bury his face in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder. "Please, darling, please," she'd whispered back, and he didn't have to be asked twice. He'd settled himself again and, with a shiver of recognition — that he was re-entering a sanctum he'd only been allowed within once before — he pressed against her and … slowly … lost himself in the warm and firm and dewy depths of her, joining himself to her, each movement a vow he would keep until the day he died. He had loved her, at first not knowing how or why, but if she would offer such a precious gift as her body to him, he would care for and keep her safe for as long as he had strength to do so.

"Gods, I love you," he had breathed as he leaned his forehead against hers while she pivoted beneath him in answer to his movements. "I love you so much, Hermione. I wish I could say how much."

"Oh, Ron," she said with a shudder that felt different than any he'd felt before from her, and soon he realized that the sensations he'd once brought about just by the touch of his hand were washing over her from the force of their union and, answering an unspoken, instinctive command, he increased his pace, moving more vigorously than he would have dared the first time, until she cried out her release. "Oh gods, Ron, yes … yes," she wailed then, gripping his back more tightly than he had thought her capable of.

The feeling had crested within him then as well, and he'd moaned without caring how loudly or how long. "Mione," he'd whispered afterward, his lips pressed tightly to her temple. She had wrapped her legs about him tightly in response, holding him in place, clearly not wanting to let him go.

Even more than the first time, he had felt that she had given herself completely to him then, and he to her.

"Will you marry me?" he'd said again as he nuzzled her ear.

She sniffled in response. "I'll marry you again and again if you'll have me."

She hadn't only made love with him. She had said — again — that she would spend her life with him. And he knew he'd have this passionate side of her to explore — and more sides as yet undiscovered — for the rest of his life. This thought forced his eyes open that morning, and as he squinted himself awake, he spied Hermione, sitting up against a pile of pillows in the light of a sunny mid-morning, happily admiring her new engagement ring. She held her hand at arm's distance, watching the facets play in the light. He felt almost guilty for intruding, because he was quite certain she wasn't aware he was watching her as she tilted her hand from side to side. And yet, he couldn't stop observing, pleased as he was by the warm smile that lit her face. She liked her ring. He had been so worried she wouldn't. But he'd followed his gut and picked this one, and he was glad of it now. For a minute, he had feared she would think it was too big, too ostentatious. But it was only what she deserved — in reality, far less than she deserved, he reckoned, but he knew her taste and knew that she would never go for anything too showy. No, this ring was timeless and understated, just as she was, and yet it would say to anyone who looked at it what needed to be said. She was precious, and she was his.

Unaware she was being watched, Hermione pondered everything the ring signified: That he'd loved her, through thick and thin, and would continue to do so. He had wanted her to have something solid, something real, to wear and to cherish, as a reminder of his commitment to her, even when he was of necessity far away from her, facing who knew what dangers, wherever they might be. She shivered anew at the thought of it for what had to be the tenth time that morning. He loved her. She couldn't help thinking of the moment she had doubted him … how unfair she had been at times … and pledged to herself to always keep his highest and best self in her mind, the good and brave person she knew had always been there deep down within him, even as early as first year.

And, though she felt mildly ridiculous for thinking of anything so frivolous at such a moment, she also thrilled at the idea that he knew her so well that he could select a ring so perfectly suited to her that she was certain, had she seen it in a boutique full of options, she would have reached for this very one.

"So you like it then," Ron croaked at that moment, not expecting his voice to sound as hoarse as it did.

Hermione jerked with mild surprise, but looked to him with a shy smile.

"I do, thank you. Very much," she said, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "I love it, darling." Then she turned to lay on her side, folding her hands beneath her chin against the stack of pillows to face him. "How did you sleep?"

He chuckled and stretched. "Like a top," he said before yawning widely. "Can't think of the last time I slept that well love, honestly." He rubbed his eyes and added, "You wore me out, woman."

He half expected her to reprimand him for being cheeky, but instead she merely bit her lip and looked down, blushing deeply. Her sudden bout of apparent shyness caused his heart to pang in his chest.

"So tell me," she said after a moment, clearly attempting to change the subject a bit, "how and where on Earth did you get my ring, Ronald? It's so beautiful — but I can't imagine there are any jewelers on St. Agnes Island."

"There are exactly none, as a matter of fact," Ron said. "Bloody boulder in the middle of nowhere, St. Agnes is. Nothing there but Auror Academy and a pub, really."

"Well then?"

"Well then what?"

She giggled and let out a huff of exasperation. "Well then, where did you manage to secure such a gorgeous piece of jewelry?"

"Oh that," he said, propping himself up on his elbow and running his free hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. "I have my ways."

At that, she sat up and, grabbing a pillow from behind her back, hit him over the head with it — and hard.

"Oi!' he shouted, snatching the pillow from her grasp and tossing it over his shoulder. "You're a brute, you are."

"I am, and don't you forget it."

He grinned and rolled on top of her, pinning her down by the wrists. "Be advised, Miss Granger, I am trained in Auror Tactics," he growled as he planted a kiss on the side of her neck while she wriggled in mock resistance beneath him. "I will meet force with force if necessary."

He continued kissing her neck and her earlobes before trailing his lips down toward her collarbone, which turned out to be all the force necessary to subdue Hermione.

She sighed contentedly as he nibbled her shoulder.

"It would seem you have decided to listen to reason and drop your guard," Ron murmured, kissing the tender skin beneath her chin.

"Mmm," she hummed, eyes shut.

He pulled back and propped himself by his elbows above her, her wrists still firmly in his grasp. "I would press my advantage, Miss Granger, but I'm afraid the need to freshen up is far more urgent," he said. "Besides, I don't know about you, but I could fair murder a cup of tea. So this will have to wait."

He let go of her wrists and sat up, reaching for his flannel robe and pulling it on. Hermione chuckled, sat up and stretched her arms over her head. "I'll put the kettle on," she said.

"No, no," he answered, rising and waving a hand at her. "I'll get it."

"You don't have to do—"

"Mione, I think I can manage to make tea and toast, love. Relax."

Before she had a chance to argue, he was out the door and banging about the kitchen.

She slipped into the loo to freshen up and, when she re-emerged, she climbed back into bed, feeling deliciously naughty for staying tucked in rather than rising to do something productive with her day.

Minutes later, Ron reappeared, teeth freshly brushed, face washed, bearing a tray of tea and toasted Warlockson's crumpets.

He set the tray down on the bedside table, poured Hermione's as she liked it — cream, no sugar — and handed it over to her along with a buttered crumpet.

He fixed his own tea — half cream, two sugars — and settled in next to her, crossing his long legs and sighing as he breathed in the comforting steam of his cup.

"It's Tidley Tea, I should note," he said with a grin.

"But of course."

"Actually, Tidley's Darjeeling-Dandelion-Mandrake Leaf blend has always been one of Mum's favorites," he added.

"You'll have to tell Winks when you meet her."

"Mmm."

Hermione took a dainty bite of her crumpet, though she had to return it to her plate so she could lick the melted butter from her fingers — Ron, it seemed, was an enthusiastic butterer.

"We're going to get crumbs in the sheets," she said as she popped her pinky finger in her mouth.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Are you a witch or aren't you?"

"Hmm?"

He tipped his head toward her wand, which was lying on the nightstand next to her.

"Oh, you're quite right. Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess," she said with a laugh. "Eating in bed was always forbidden as far as my parents were concerned."

"Shame," Ron said as he tucked the remainder of his crumpet in his mouth and reached for another. "Don't know what they're missing, do they?"

"No, I suppose not."

They continued to eat and sip their tea in companionable silence, occasionally giggling for no particular reason or giving one another a nudge with a foot or an elbow. Eventually, Hermione reached for her wand to tidy up the mess — but not before Ron grabbed her hand and licked the last traces of butter from her fingertips.

He kissed her ring as he did so, and she realized, with an inward grimace, that he had quite successfully changed the subject — and now she was more curious than ever. "So?" she said with a grin as he Levitated the tea tray back to the kitchen.

"So what?"

She slapped her hand on the bed and let out a huff of playful irritation. "So, are you going to tell me about the ring or aren't you?" she said.

He laughed and settled back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. "It's just that it's not a very interesting story is all."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He scratched his head. "All right. What do you want to know?"

She leaned back against the headboard and scooted next him so their shoulders were touching. "First," she said with a grin, "I want to know where you got this beautiful lovely thing that I will cherish for the rest of my life."

He smiled back and kissed her temple.

"Why, at Jemms' Jewelers, of course."

She shook her head. "But Jemms' is in Diagon Alley."

"Uh huh."

"But …"

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, woman — are you a witch or aren't you?"

She sat up straight, crossed her arms and attempted to glare at him, but only dissolved into a fit of laughter — and he joined her.

"There are Floo Banks at St. Agnes, you know," he said in mock exasperation. "I gave old Jasper Jemms a Floo call, told him what I was looking for, and he showed me a whole assortment. I picked the one I liked, gave him the code to my vault at Gringotts, and he Vanished it to me, no questions asked. So there."

He crossed his arms to match hers, knowing — well, hoping — she wouldn't ask how he had paid for it. Though he was prepared to defend himself if she accused him of being too extravagant. His share of the award money that the Australian Ministry granted the trio alone was more than enough to cover it — and that was only a fraction of the honoraria that had been rolling in for months from wizarding governments around the world.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" he added, one eyebrow raised.

Her face softened then, transforming from laughter to something more sober. "When?"

"When what?"

"When did you … when did you call Mr. Jemms?" Hermione asked in a small voice, her breath suddenly feeling shallow, her eyes riveted to his face.

Ron took a breath, looked down at his knees, then raised his eyes to hers. "The first weekend I was at St. Agnes Island," he said quietly.

She blinked rapidly. "The … the very first weekend?"

He nodded, and his ears grew pink. "I missed you so much. I know I've said it a million times, but I honestly … I guess I wasn't prepared for just how bad it would feel."

She bit her lower lip and caressed his arm, aiming to say something comforting, but he spoke again before she could collect herself. "I just thought," he said, then paused to swallow. "I thought it would hurt less if I did something, you know? Something to make me feel … like maybe I could do something about it."

He was speaking so quietly, she could barely hear him above the sound of her pulse beating in her ears.

He shrugged. "I thought it would be easier," he continued.

"I'm sorry?" she said after a moment, her brows raised in confusion. "You thought … what would be easier?"

"If we were engaged … if I knew you were really mine, really waiting for me … I thought it would be easier to leave you," he said as he slowly and absentmindedly opened and closed his fists at his side, gripping the duvet. "But I was wrong, wasn't I."

"Oh, Ron," she said, her chin wobbling.

He reached for her hand and studied it, rubbing his thumb over the stones of her ring. "I've got to leave here day after tomorrow," he murmured, "and it's going to be even harder now."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Please review!_


	14. Chapter 14: Family

**Chapter 14: The Family**

Hermione felt as if a swarm of Cornish Pixies had taken up residence in her stomach, she was so nervous — though she couldn't understand why. She kept telling herself it was only Sunday dinner at The Burrow, an event she'd attended and quite happily half a dozen times since Ron had left for St. Agnes. But …

She'd successfully distracted herself from the prospect ahead all day. After spending nearly their entire Saturday lolling about in bed — only venturing out after sunset to pick up some Indian takeaway and return to Tidley Mews — she and Ron had arisen bright and early Sunday morning determined to explore the Heath and some of the neighborhood beyond. Bundled up in jackets and jumpers for the late October chill, they'd happily strolled as far as Camden Town, bobbing in and out of shops and pubs and bakeries and florists, eating and drinking as they went and enjoying the autumnal sunshine. But as the appointed hour neared — they were expected to Apparate to Devon at 3 p.m. — she felt increasingly skittish.

When they approached Regent's Canal, their planned-on Apparition point, Ron stopped in mid-stride and lifted her hand to his lips. "It'll be all right, love, it really will," he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze after kissing it lightly. It was the first time he'd directly addressed the subject all day, though he must have been aware, from her increasingly pale complexion and distracted demeanor, that she was on the verge of having kittens over the evening's visit.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said. "I don't know why I'm so twitchy."

He barked out a laugh. "Well I bloody well do," he said, walking on and placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. "You're about to land in the bosom of my family — with your parents and even Harry and Ginny there for good measure — and you're going to be sporting a diamond ring that will take Ginny exactly 2.3 milliseconds to notice. I don't blame you for having the jitters."

She squeezed his arm between her hands, mildly comforted by his solidness and warmth. "And you don't?"

He shook his head. "Nah," he said with a shrug. "I reckon there'll be a bit of a kerfuffle at the beginning, and George will have a field day, and we'll have to put up with roughly two dozen nosy questions. Actually, I could murder Harry for giving in to Mum's demands that they come down from Hogsmeade tonight, because Ginny is going to be the nosiest of all. Can't imagine what she'll try to pry out of us. But yeah, after the dust settles, I think it'll be fine, really. We just have to sort of grin and bear it."

"Well, your mother really wanted Ginny and Harry to be there today," Hermione said. "She would have been quite put out if you boys didn't spend at least a *few* hours of your leave at The Burrow. And of course I'm sure Minerva was more than happy to give Ginny a special pass for the occasion."

Ron kicked a stone in their path. "Yeah, I get it." He sighed and looked down at her from the corner of his eye. "So … is this a *terminal* case of the collywobbles that you've got, or do you think you'll recover?"

She chuckled. "I'll be fine, I think, it's just a lot—"

"Because it would be OK, honestly, if you," he said hurriedly, cutting her off, "if you, you know … I mean, I would understand if you'd be more comfortable, or if you'd rather not … I mean, if it would be easier for you, you could certainly …"

Hermione stopped and looked up at him. "Ronald, what are you on about?"

He turned to face her, but quickly shifted his gaze to their joined hands, where her ring glittered beneath his thumb, the corners of his mouth downturned. "I just thought," he said, his tone suddenly somber, "if you really didn't feel ready to tell the family that we're, you know … that I'd understand if you decided not to wear the ring in front of them for now. No hard feelings."

Just as it had when he had proposed — at the moment she had detected that flicker of doubt in his eyes — Hermione felt her heart crack open and then just as quickly mend itself as a warm swell of affection for Ronald Bilius Weasley washed over her. He thought she might not want others to know of their engagement! He didn't want her to be uncomfortable. He was giving her an out. She kicked herself for being so caught up in her own distress that she had given him precisely the wrong idea about where she stood.

"Ron," she said, reaching for his other hand so they stood facing one another on the sidewalk. "I am so sorry, darling."

He was listening, but his eyes were fixed on her shoulder. She sighed and, dropping his hands, grasped his face in both of hers, seeking out and then finding his gaze. "Ronald Weasley, I am so lucky that you want to be my husband — especially at times like this, when I can be such an insensitive barmpot." He smiled slightly at this. "I couldn't be more proud to wear your ring, darling, and no matter what happens — and no matter what kind of commotion awaits us at The Burrow, no matter what kind of eyebrow-raising questions Ginny may ask, no matter what kind of cheeky remarks George may make, no matter how many different colors my father turns — I will never, ever take this ring off from now until the day I die, do you understand me?

He chuckled and shook his head gently. "Well that's a right shame, love."

"What?"

"I said it's a shame, because if you never take it off, then you'll never get to read the inscription inside."

"I beg your pardon?"

She dropped her hands from his face slowly, and he took them in his. "If you don't mind bending your new rule just a bit, you'll see it right here," he said as he slipped the ring off her finger and held it out to her.

She took the ring and held it up to the light. And there she saw it, etched in fine script: "My heart is in your hands. Love always, R."

Her stomach was fluttering again, but not with nerves this time. "Oh, Ron," she whispered. "Oh, darling."

Ron took the ring from her grasp and, pausing to look her in the eye before resuming the task at hand, he returned the ring to its rightful place on her finger then turned her hand over, tracing his fingers over her palm before lifting it to his lips and planting a kiss there.

"I love you," Hermione murmured, and they kissed, standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to the flow of muggle pedestrians streaming past them.

They eventually found a good spot to Apparate, just behind a cheesemonger's shop. Upon landing outside the Weasley wards, Ron took Hermione's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Here goes nothing," he said, adjusting the rucksack stuffed with goodies from Camden on his shoulder and leading her up the path toward the front porch.

Harry spied them through the window before they saw him, and he strolled out onto the front step to greet them, rubbing his arms against the chill.

"Oi, I thought you two would never get here," Harry called, and Hermione dropped Ron's hand and ran to meet him in the center of the lawn, throwing her arms about his neck and giving an excited whoop as he twirled her three times in the air before setting her down.

"Oh, Harry it's so good to see you," Hermione said through happy tears as Ron caught up with them and slapped Harry on the back. "My goodness, is it possible you got taller at St. Agnes?"

Harry laughed and shrugged, holding Hermione by the shoulders at arm's length, the better to see how well she looked nowadays. He smiled to see the rosy glow in her cheeks and the light of excitement in her eye — and shuddered to think how absent they were when he last saw her, before she'd gone to Australia to recover her parents. "Hermione, they've come up with at least twenty different ways to torture us at camp, but so far no one has put us on the rack to stretch us."

"Though you never know," said Ron with a laugh. "That may happen next term."

"Well, whatever they're doing to you down there, it seems to agree with both of you," Hermione said. "You look marvelous, Harry, truly."

"You too," Harry said, squeezing her shoulders once more before turning and giving Ron a sharp punch to the arm. "You've been good to our girl this weekend, eh?" he said jovially.

Ron gave him a small salute. "Doing my level best."

"And what have you and Ginny been getting up to in Hogsmeade?" Hermione asked with a devilish grin as she linked her arm with Harry's and turned them toward the house. Before Harry could answer, Ginny burst through the doorway, followed by Hugh, Eleanor, Molly and Arthur.

"You're late!" Ginny said sharply, throwing her arms around Hermione and pulling her into a tight hug.

"We were supposed to be here at 3 o'clock," Ron said with an exasperated look at his watch. "It's 3:15, for Merlin's sake."

"Nevermind that, Ronnie," his Mum said through a watery grin. "Let me look at you," she added, grabbing his face in her hands and squeezing it hard.

"Mum, you're hurting me," Ron mumbled through crumpled lips.

"Merlin bless me, you've changed," Molly continued, ignoring his protests. "Oh, Ronnie, you're not a baby anymore, are you?"

Ron made to answer, but Molly persisted, tightening her grip on his cheeks. "I don't know what they're feeding you down there, but you look emaciated — you *and* Harry. We'll feed you up properly tonight, don't you worry."

"Thanks, Mum," Ron said, rubbing his face with relief once she'd released it from her grasp and turned her attention to Hermione.

Hugh and Eleanor, meanwhile, had been fussing over Hermione as well. Ron turned to greet Arthur with a handshake when Ginny shrieked, "Gandalf's great galloping ghost, Hermione, what's that on your finger?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged an amused look. "You were wrong," she said over the heads of the crowd.

"I know," he replied. "It was a bit more than 2.3 milliseconds, wasn't it."

Heart pounding, Hermione took a deep breath and scanned the group. Though she was nervous, she couldn't suppress the smile that blossomed across her face. She then returned her gaze to Ron and spoke as if only to him. "Ron asked me to marry him, and I said yes."

Pandemonium, as predicted, broke out — so loudly that George was awakened from the nap he was taking in the lounge and padded out onto the front porch rubbing his eyes.

"What are all you nutters doing standing out in the cold, screaming your heads off?" he groaned.

Molly, who had been busy crushing Hermione to her chest to the point of nearly suffocating her, eased her grip slightly to answer George through her sobs, "Ron and Hermione are engaged, Georgie dear. Engaged!" And, at that, she crushed Hermione to her chest yet again, and Eleanor, tearful as well, joined them.

"Oh Hermione, darling," Eleanor breathed into her daughter's hair. "Oh, my girl, congratulations."

Ron stood back and watched it all with amusement. Ginny, clutching Harry's shoulders in her hands, was quite literally bouncing up and down, clearly dying to get her hands on Hermione again if ever Eleanor and Molly stopped smothering her. Harry, meanwhile, wore a shell-shocked, open-mouthed grin. Arthur gave Ron a hug and a quick slap to the back before handing him off to Hugh, who shook his hand and merely said, quite calmly: "We'll talk later." Ron gulped, hoping Hugh didn't notice, and gave him a quick nod in return.

Hermione, from her vantage point squashed between Molly and Eleanor, observed the men's reactions with great interest. She was about to inquire about it when George piped up.

"So, you finally mastered the Imperius curse, eh Ronnie?" George said, throwing an arm about Ron's shoulders and punching him lightly in the ribs.

"I'd be happy to teach you some of the finer points if it would help you get a date, Georgie," Ron replied with a cheeky grin.

"No need!" Ginny blurted gleefully. "It's all over Diagon Alley that George has been dating Angelina Johnson."

George pointed a threatening finger in Ginny's direction. "Shut. It. You!" he snarled, causing Ginny to jump behind Harry with a squeak.

"Oh no you don't — don't hide behind your ickle boyfriend," George continued, darting behind Harry, who stepped out of George's way, laughing, as Ginny ran into the house, George close on her heels.

As George chased Ginny, who was screeching hysterically, up the stairs toward her bedroom, the general fuss over the engagement news resumed. Molly, Eleanor, Harry and Arthur dragged Ron and Hermione inside, peppering them with question after question along the way. Hermione, meanwhile, continued to observe her father out the corner of her eye, perplexed by his placid reaction to his daughter's engagement. Molly resumed serving the tea, which had been interrupted by Ron and Hermione's arrival. But as she and Eleanor settled down to drink theirs, Arthur announced, "This occasion calls for something a little stronger than tea, don't you think? Anyone up for a Sorcerer's Ale?"

Harry, Ron, and Hugh raised their hands, and Arthur rose to fetch four bottles from the kitchen.

"Hang on a minute, Daddy," Hermione said, her brow furrowed despite the nascent smile beginning to blossom on her lips. She walked across the room to the loveseat where Hugh was sitting and perched herself upon his knees, looping her arms about his shoulders. "I half expected you to blow a gasket over this news," she added, "and yet you're the only one in the room who didn't seem gobsmacked by it."

Eleanor put down her teacup. "You're quite right, Hermione. Your father is uncharacteristically calm about this whole thing, isn't he."

Hugh laughed, clinking bottles with Arthur as his host handed around cold bottles of ale. "Well, it's quite simple, darling," Hugh said. "I wasn't gobsmacked."

"You mean, you guessed this was going to happen?" Hermione asked slyly.

"Oh no, I didn't guess. I knew."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I knew, my dear, because Ron and I already discussed it," Hugh said, raising his bottle in Ron's direction.

Hermione turned toward Ron and slid off her father's lap, rising to stand — eyes wide, mouth ajar, brows raised — for a full five seconds before she could pull her thoughts together enough to speak. "I don't understand," she finally managed to say. "You … what?"

Ron looked up at her from his seat on the sofa next to Harry, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. Blimey, was Hermione losing the plot?

Ron's ears meanwhile heated up until they were positively scorching. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for a way to explain. He was dimly aware that Ginny and George had re-entered the room, and their silence only tended to confirm what he already suspected — he was in trouble. "Erm, well, I—"

Hugh by this time had risen to stand next to Hermione.

"Here," Hugh said, reaching inside his tweed jacket and extracting a folded piece of parchment. "Imagine my surprise when one fine Australian morning a ruddy owl flew through my window and thrust a roll of parchment in my direction."

"An Owl?" Hermione squeaked.

"Yes. I reckoned you might want to see this, darling, so I brought it along. Do you mind, Ron?"

Ron shrugged. "Uh, well …" He quickly attempted to calculate the odds that showing this particular parchment to Hermione would increase the likelihood that she'd debollocks him, but before he could reach a conclusion, Hugh gave him an encouraging nod from behind Hermione's head, and he decided to trust his future father-in-law's judgment. "Sure," Ron said, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. "Yeah, sure," he added quickly, trying to seem somewhat more confident.

Hugh wrapped his arm about Hermione's shoulders. "Read it aloud, darling. I know your mother won't rest until she knows this letter's contents, and I daresay Molly will feel the same," he said with a wink in their direction. Molly and Eleanor, hiding their smiles behind their teacups, exchanged a conspiratorial look.

Hermione, meanwhile, unfolded the parchment and read it as best she could, though her hands were shaking and, as she scanned the text before reciting it, her vision became blurred by tears.

"14 September 1998, St. Agnes Island. Dear Mr. Granger," Hermione began, lip quivering, voice wobbling. "What I'm about to say seems like the sort of thing that should be discussed in person, man to man, but since you're still in Australia …"

Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times, tears now rolling down her cheeks.

"Here," said Ron, who had handed his ale to Harry and, rising to his feet, had reached out to take the parchment from Hermione's grasp. "Let me."

She looked up at him, eyes shining, and somehow Ron knew he wasn't in trouble anymore. Far from it.

He cleared his throat and read in a clear voice, his still-red ears the only outward sign that his nerves were ajangle:

 _14 September 1998_  
 _St. Agnes Island_

 _Dear Mr. Granger,_

 _What I'm about to say seems like the sort of thing that should be discussed in person, man to man, but since you're still in Australia and I'm here at Auror Academy whether I like it or not, I reckon a letter is going to have to do._

 _Sir, I don't think it'll come as news to you that I'm in love with your daughter and have been for a long time. And as I said — or, well, blurted — at the clinic a few weeks ago, I intend to ask her to marry me."_

Ron paused to look at Hermione, his face warming into a smile despite the nerves that had shaken him just minutes before. She sniffled and gave him a barely perceptible nod. He cleared his throat and continued reading.

 _What you don't know, I suppose, is that I've decided not to put it off any longer._

 _Hermione would be right hacked off if I did something as old-fashioned as asking you for your permission. I'd probably be setting myself up for a lecture about how I wasn't respecting her independence or somesuch, and I'd probably deserve it._

Eleanor and Molly both stifled a laugh at this. "So sorry, Ronnie dear," Molly said. "Carry on."

"No worries, Mum," Ron said. "Now where was I? Oh yeah—"

 _Even so, it doesn't seem right for a bloke to do something as big as proposing marriage to a girl without talking to her father about it first._

 _Sir, I know all I can offer you are words, but I want you to know that I don't take the idea of marriage lightly. If Hermione says yes, I'll be thrilled, of course, but I'm pretty sure I'll also be a bit staggered by it, too. It's a big responsibility, after all. I also know you're bound to have worries. We *are* young, it's true, but I think the war has matured us both — and that's putting it mildly. And you have big dreams for your daughter, as you should. Hermione is ruddy amazing, and I'll do whatever I can to help her become the mind-boggling, world-changing arse-kicker she's meant to be._

 _Mostly, all I really want is for Hermione to be happy. If she lets me, I'll spend my life trying to make that happen. I'd feel better about that mission, however, if you and I were sorted. Like I said, Hermione would probably brain me if I asked your permission, but I would feel a lot better if I had your blessing. And if I can't have your blessing, then I suppose it's only fair to hear you out and know what your objections are, so I can try to fix whatever's wrong. At the very least, I reckoned you deserve a heads-up that I'm about to ask your daughter this really big question. I know if I had a daughter, I'd bloody well want to know something like that._

 _I haven't mapped out all the details yet, but I think my first leave — at Halloween — is when I'll give it a bash. So there's time to talk this out by Owl Post before then. I know you likely haven't fannied about with international Owls before. The Owl that delivers this message will likely hang about and wait for you to write a response if you tell it to. (Don't feel weird about talking to Owls, by the way — they're dead intelligent creatures, and they'll understand every word you say.) Once you've written your response, clip it to the Owl's leg and tell it the message is bound for Ronald Weasley, British Auror Academy, St. Agnes Island, Isles of Scilly, U.K. It'll get to me, but there's usually a two or three day delay between Australia and Britain._

 _I'd ask you to give my best to Hermione and her Mum, but I reckon you'd rather keep this correspondence under wraps, wouldn't you. So I guess I'll just say good luck with the packing and I hope you and Hermione are enjoying your time together. I know it means a lot to her._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Ron Weasley._

Shifting his eyes from the parchment to Hermione's face, Ron noticed that his cheeks were sore from smiling, and his ears, which were red when he began reading, were positively ablaze by the time he finished. Still, he didn't mind. Everyone in the room knew how he felt and, surprisingly, he didn't give a rip. And yes, Hermione might be annoyed that he'd gone to her father first, but he was prepared to defend his decision if he had to.

He needn't have worried, however, because before he could even hand the parchment back to Hugh, Hermione had launched herself at him, her arms wrapped tightly about his shoulders, her tear-stained cheek pressed to his neck. "Oh Ronald," she cried as Ron wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, not caring that they were standing in the middle of a crowded room full of family.

"So you wrote back and told Ron to bugger off and leave your daughter alone, right Mr. Granger?" George shouted over the sound of Hermione's sniffles.

Ron only chuckled into Hermione's hair and pulled her closer, not caring enough about George's cheekiness to give it a second thought. Hugh, for his part, threw his head back and laughed harder than Ron reckoned he'd ever seen him do. "I thought about it, George, I do confess," he said after he caught his breath. "But no," he continued, "we began a rather fascinating correspondence, Ron and I, and in the process I believe we have come to a right understanding."

With Hermione still clinging to his chest, Ron reached out to Hugh, and they shook hands heartily.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Happy Romione Ship Week, everybody! I didn't even know Shipweeks were a thing until the other day, but apparently they are! What better time to share this story (or any other Romione tale you might fancy) with your fellow shippers?_

 _Please review!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	15. Chapter 15: Sweet Sorrow

**Chapter 15: Sweet Sorrow**

Hermione and Ron were till laughing when they Apparated just beyond the wards edging Tidley House.

"Gods, I thought we'd never get out of there!" Ron said with exaggerated relief as Hermione tumbled into him, laughing so hard she could barely stand up.

"Oh, I know!" Hermione cried, wiping tears from her eyes as she was racked with another wave of giggles. "And when George told my mother that wizards say their wedding vows in the nude, I wanted to kick him in the shins so hard, I really did, but …"

"… But that look on your Mum's face," Ron said, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pointing them toward Tidley Mews, "it was priceless. I'll never forget it as long as I live."

"Let's not forget the look on *your* face when Ginny asked if we'd set a date, and my father growled—"

"—How about 2025?" Ron continued in an exaggerated impression of Hugh's deep baritone, and they both stopped and wheezed again with laughter, holding each other up.

"Of course," Hermione said, still grinning, "he might not have been so shirty if you'd let him beat you at chess," to which Ron merely huffed in response.

"Oh, sweet Merlin," he said, trying and failing to sober himself up and control his giggles. "If we don't quiet down, we'll wake Winks," he added, relieved to find as he looked up that the house was still completely dark. The last thing he wanted was a late-night chat with Winks. Not that she wasn't a lovely woman, but Hermione had introduced her to him the previous day and the ensuing conversation ate up the better part of an hour. Winks, it seemed, was an enthusiastic conversationalist.

"Oh, poop, you're right about Winks," Hermione whispered as they turned the corner into the garden.

"'Oh poop?' Mind your language, Miss Granger."

"Yes, sir," she said, pausing to give him a little salute. "My goodness, darling, but I do believe I'm a bit drunk."

"I do believe you are, too," Ron answered, grasping her by the waist and yanking her to him. "The better to have my way with you, my dear."

Hermione slapped his chest playfully, then looped her arms around his neck. She was too tipsy to think of a clever retort, and opted instead merely to pull him down to her level and kiss him deeply.

"Mmmmmm, I've been wanting to do that for hours," she breathed against his lips when they both came up for air minutes later.

"There's more where that came from, love, but let's not put on a show for Winks, eh?" With that, Ron pulled away and took Hermione's hand, reaching for the latch to the gate that opened up into the walled garden that surrounded the Mews.

Hermione let out a long sigh, allowing herself to be led through the gate and into the moonlit garden. "Still," she sighed, "I expected Ginny to pry, but even I was surprised at the questions she came up with."

"Yeah," Ron said. "Who'd have thought she'd expect us to have our honeymoon planned out already. I mean, mother of Merlin, we've been engaged less than 48 hours."

"She's scandalized that I haven't picked out a dress and a color scheme already."

"Makes you wonder what Harry's in for if and when he ever pops the question," Ron said as they came to the bottom of the staircase leading to their door.

"*If*?" Hermione huffed.

"Well, a lot can happen at Auror Academy, love."

"What on Earth do you mean?" she said, pulling her arm from his grasp and placing her hands on her hips.

Ron, standing a step above her, leaned on the railing and grinned. "You do know there are birds at Auror Academy, right?"

Hermione raised her eyebrow at him and tapped her foot.

"Don't worry, Mione," Ron said through a wide grin. "You're stuck with me, come hell or high water." With that, he reached down and, ignoring her squeal of delight, plucked her up from the step where she had been standing, clutched her to his chest, and carried her the rest of the way up the stairs.

"I intend to be stuck with you for all the rest of my days," she said breathlessly when they'd reached the top.

"That's a deal, love," he said, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. "But for now, would you mind Alomahora-ing the door? You're heavier than you look."

"Ronald!"

"I'm kidding, love — you're light as a feather, of course," he said, chuckling as he pushed his way through the doorway and set her down gently. He dropped his rucksack to the floor and helped her with her coat before taking off his own and hanging them both on the hooks by the doorway. In that short time, the mood had shifted. The glow of the evening spent with family was quickly fading, gradually replaced by the sound of the clock ticking away on the mantelpiece, and the chilling realization that they would be forced to part, and soon, knowing he was scheduled to Apparate back to St. Agnes at 9 o'clock the next morning.

"Hey," he said, suddenly a bit more serious.

"Hey," she replied softly, facing him, a slight furrow in her brow.

Less than 12 hours. That was the thought that flitted through her head at that moment — that she had less than 12 hours before Ron was torn from her side again, and she cursed herself for even thinking it. For weeks, she'd made a promise to herself that she wouldn't ruin his entire weekend leave by bemoaning its brevity and yet, now that they were alone again and lacking the distractions of the family, the city and even Winks Tidley, her dread of his departure loomed large. Though only a moment ago she had been laughing, she now shook her head gently, her mind reeling from the emotional rollercoaster that had been Ron's visit.

Ron, for his part, only knew that she looked troubled all of a sudden, and it wasn't hard to guess why. He stepped closer to her and studied her face, illuminated only by the moonlight washing into the lounge through the French doors.

He reached for her hand and knitted his fingers loosely with hers. She looked down and sniffled before looking up into his eyes again.

"Hermione," he said softly.

She sniffled again, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, then returned his gaze.

"Once I graduate to Camden, love, I'll be back here for good," he said. "We just have to hang on until Christmas, and then St. Agnes will be behind us."

She nodded.

"And I'll never leave your side again," he added, stepping forward and closing the distance between them. "Not ever, Hermione."

He'd expected her to move toward him, but instead she stepped back, giving his fingertips a gentle tug. She was leading him deeper into the flat, through the lounge, and toward the bedroom.

"Promise me," she whispered as she moved backward.

He stopped in his tracks. "Wait," he said seriously. "You know you have my promise, yeah?"

Mildly startled by his sudden intensity, she looked up at him and nodded apologetically. "Yes, of course, I—"

"No, really," he interjected. "You don't have any doubts anymore, do you?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but he had carried on before she could formulate a response. He wasn't quite sure what he was feeling or where it was coming from — all he knew was he had a vehement need to be understood. The memory of her face, the forlorn look she'd worn the night he abandoned her on the hunt, flashed in his mind, and it sent a sharp pang through his chest.

"I mean it, Hermione," he said, stepping closer to her. "You're it for me. Forever," he added. He dropped her hands and cupped them around her face, his thumbs grazing her cheeks. "Once I'm done at St. Agnes, come Christmastime, it's you and me and no one else. No war. No mission. No barriers. No one standing in our way, do you understand?"

She nodded again, not even attempting to answer this time, in large measure because she knew she couldn't put much of anything into words just then. She only knew she loved him so much her heart might burst, and she didn't want him to ever stop speaking the feelings and ideas that were seemingly overflowing from somewhere deep within him.

"The future I fought for — we fought for — it starts in about six weeks' time, love. And I never want you to doubt it ever again. No more games. No more misunderstandings. You and me. 'Til death do us part."

She thought he was going to kiss her then, but she let out a little squeak of surprise when he instead swooped down and lifted her off the floor, tucking her legs around his middle and his arms tightly about her waist.

With her legs clamped tightly to his trunk and her arms clasping his neck, he sank his fingers into the flesh of her bum and carried her toward the bedroom, dropping her unceremoniously on the mattress and collapsing on top of her. She pulled at his jumper and he cooperated, tugging it over his head and flinging it to the side. He buried his face in her hair then, gnawing the tender flesh at the junction of collarbone, shoulder and neck as she writhed beneath him. They clawed at one another insistently, blindly tearing off articles of clothing one by one until they were skin-on-skin, sprawled out across the bed and rolling hungrily, one atop the other.

The heat of his breath against her neck and shoulders sent ripples through her skin, and she nipped and kissed the flesh of his arms, his shoulders and his chest fiercely as he loomed above her. Her sharp gasp did nothing to slow him as he entered her, and the low moan that escaped from her afterward only seemed to add fuel to the fire that was driving him, for he thrust himself deeply then, as deep as he could go, slowly pulling back nearly to the point of breaking free of her before propelling himself inside her anew, harder this time, repeating the motion again and again until all she could do was open herself to him and hang on, arms and legs mirroring the position they'd held as he'd carried her to the bed minutes before.

Ron, meanwhile, was intoxicated, surrounded by her in every aspect — her skin, her hair, her smell, her arms, her legs and, most of all, the cauldron of warm and tight sensation that pulsed around him as he thrust himself within her.

"Forever, Mione," he moaned against her neck. "Wild Thestrals couldn't keep me from you now…"

Hermione tightened her grip on his back, desperate to find a way to somehow be even closer to him. "Darling," she breathed into his ear. "Don't ever … I never want to live without you … I can't go through it again …"

"Never."

"Oh Ron."

They collapsed in one another's arms afterward, chests heaving for breath. Ron rolled onto his side to face her, and they stared at one another from across their pillows.

Words were hardly necessary — they'd each said everything they needed to say, in one manner or another. Now, it seemed, was time to reflect on what it all meant. It was big. Yes, Ron had proposed, and Hermione had said yes, and their families now were in on it, but this moment — it felt to both of them that the pledge had been made that much more real, for they had each acknowledged the fear that had lain just beneath it, the hurt that had been inflicted on the hunt and had remained unresolved until then. Neither of them wanted to relive the pain of that separation, and they'd do their damnedest to be sure they never would.

Neither could say how long they laid there, catching their breath and drinking in the sight of one another in the moonlit darkness. At some point, however, Hermione let out a small giggle. She tried to suppress it but it bubbled up again, a bit louder this time, and Ron couldn't help but crack a grin.

"What's so funny?"

"I was just thinking about Ginny," Hermione said. "Dear lord, all those questions…"

"I know. I didn't catch all of it, though. What was she saying about Gryffindor colors?"

"Oh," Hermione said with a chuckle. "She thinks we should do the whole wedding in Gryffindor crimson and gold."

Ron shrugged. "I don't care, honestly."

"I don't really either — which was the part that seemed to upset her most," Hermione said. "She couldn't believe I haven't thought about it. But I honestly haven't. She was bursting with questions, Merlin bless her — have I thought about bridesmaids? How many guests? Will the wedding be indoors or outdoors? Will I wear my mother's gown or buy one new? My head was spinning! I was half expecting her to ask how many kids we plan to have."

Ron fell onto his back and pressed his hands to his face. "Oh, sweet Merlin, makes me want to elope," he moaned.

"I hear you," she said with a laugh and flopped onto her back to stretch.

"Hey, wait a tick," Ron said, rolling back onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. "How many kids *do* we plan to have?"

"Plan?" Hermione said, smiling up at him as she ran her hand over her favorite spot on his arm, right where his shoulder met his bicep. "There's no plan."

"You mean you haven't thought about it?"

"You mean you have?"

Looking down at his pillow, Ron felt his ears heat up. "Well, erm, yeah. Yeah, I have."

"All right, then. I confess. I've thought about it." She felt her heart warm up a few degrees as his lips curled into the half grin she loved so much. "I guess I'm just a bit surprised to find that *you've* thought about it."

He let out a long exhale and shifted so that he was leaning above her, propped up on his elbows, and rubbed his nose against hers. "Thinking about this stuff is what got me through the war, love."

"'This stuff?'" she asked as he planted small kisses on her nose and her cheeks.

He pulled back to look her in the eye. "The future," he said simply. "All through the war, there was always a lot of lofty talk about it. 'We're fighting for our future, blah, blah, blah. Kingsley's whole speech at the Order of Merlin ceremony — every other word was 'the future' and all this fuss about 'the next generation.'"

She nodded to indicate she knew what he meant, but she didn't dare say anymore for fear of derailing his train of thought, for she sensed he was on a bit of a roll and she was *dying* to know what was in his head.

"Well, maybe I'm just a bit thick — remember in that time in Charms class you said I was a 'terribly concrete person'?"

She frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed on.

"Don't apologize, love, you were right," he said. "Whenever people talked about so-called future generations during the war, it wasn't just talk for me — I pictured it. I pictured … us. I know I didn't have a right to back then, but I pictured it: You, me and a couple of kids, and I reckoned all I could really hope for … what I was really fighting for … was the chance to maybe make that happen someday, if you'd let me. That's all."

She let out a little sigh and, laughing at herself for tearing up for the *umpteenth* time that weekend, she looped her arms around his neck.

"Do you have any idea — *any idea at all* — how much I love you, Ronald Weasley?"

~~ Finis ~~

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Parting is such sweet sorrow indeed._

 _Well, that's it, folks. The end of yet another story by yours truly. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please don't be shy about sharing it with your fellow Romione lovers. And *please* don't be shy about reviewing. I just received a lovely review to one of my older stories today in which the reviewer said this: "I've never reviewed because I tend to be pretty anxious about sharing what I think." And he/she went on to write one of the most thoughtful and heartwarming reviews that I have *ever* received._

 _I am confident that I speak for the entire fic-writing community when I say please, PLEASE, don't ever feel that your comments (especially positive ones!) wouldn't be welcomed by the writer. We *live* for your comments, we really do. So do speak up, please!_

 _Before signing off, I should thank the wonderful readers who have been so kind as to review and send me PMs. You're a wonderful bunch. I am so blessed to have such supportive and kind readers:_

 _chemrunner57, AzaleaBlue, GingerLust, ScarletProphecy14, Carmen's Daughter, ShilenKnight, GroovyExcel, tryntee13, Nichole O, LilyJean630, ShePotter, jroseley, banzi, ENPD, BeckNiece, GinLoran, loverhr, MissGamerGeek, Chanel Forsk, S.R, Vannah6642, CallieSkye, Tributedvictor1, LitEnthused, jenahid, Too shy 2 log in, MotherNight, Tyler'sPrincess, Strange Bedfellow, bon, Warnamagenta, Carrie K, Robbie1979, Magic Mockingjays 'n Mundanes._

 _Finally, I should note that I had hoped to get this chapter posted in time for the end of Romione Ship Week on Tumblr, but I believe I missed it by a day. Wah! At any rate, ship week was fun, and I look forward to catching up on all the great Romione content that was posted these past few days. Share the love!_

 _Take care, dear readers, and let me hear from you …_

 _xoxo,_

 _Holly._


	16. Chapter 16: Epilogue

**Chapter 16: Epilogue**

 _"Hugh Granger, you're impossible."_

 _"Eleanor, those letters were private — confidential correspondence between me and Ron," he muttered as they drove up the motorway, heading back to Cambridge after their latest weekend visit to The Burrow. "If I'd known you might want to show them to Hermione someday, well, I probably would have written them very, very differently."_

 _Eleanor sighed and shook her head, squirming in her seat and wiping condensation from the passenger side window as they sped past green fields shrouded in springtime mist. "Honestly, Hugh, it was seven years ago — ancient history!"_

 _"And besides," Hugh continued, pausing for a moment to adjust the rear-view mirror. "All we wrote about in the last few weeks before he proposed was chess strategy. Hermione won't care about that."_

 _"Which reminds me," Eleanor huffed, "do you and Ron *have* to play chess constantly whenever we're together? I can be quite tiresome."_

 _"Ron doesn't seem to mind," Hugh countered. "And one of these days, I swear to high heavens I'm going to beat him."_

 _Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Stop changing the subject, darling. Ron's already agreed to hand over the letters you sent him, and he says he agrees that an album containing both of your letters would be the *perfect* fifth anniversary gift for Hermione."_

 _Hugh grunted. "Ron only agreed because he doesn't want to land on his mother-in-law's bad side."_

 _"I always told you he was an unusually bright young man," Eleanor replied, crossing her arms._

 _Hugh couldn't help but smile at that._

 _Eleanor eventually prevailed, of course, and was set to present a leather-bound album containing the 1998 correspondence between Ron and Hugh to Hermione on the eve of the young couple's fifth wedding anniversary, but her plans were interrupted by a panicked phone call from Hermione. Ron was injured on a mission. He was unconscious in the intensive care ward at St. Mungo's. The doctors gave him a decent chance of a full recovery, but Hermione was still unnerved beyond belief, especially because the Healers said he'd need to be kept under a Sleeping spell for more than a week._

 _As Eleanor and Hugh hurriedly packed their bags to stand vigil with Hermione and the Weasleys at Ron's bedside, Eleanor spied the album, wrapped and sitting on her bedside table. After pausing for a moment, she hoisted the album into her arms, reckoning this gift could now serve as more than a mere anniversary present. And indeed, as she counted the hours until Ron was returned to her whole and intact, Hermione read the letters inside time and time again._

oooOOOooo

14 September 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Dear Mr. Granger,

What I'm about to say seems like the sort of thing that should be discussed in person, man to man, but since you're still in Australia and I'm here at Auror Academy whether I like it or not, I reckon a letter is going to have to do.

Sir, I don't think it'll come as news to you that I'm in love with your daughter and have been for a long time. And as I said — or, well, blurted — at the clinic a few weeks ago, I intend to ask her to marry me.

What you don't know, I suppose, is that I've decided not to put it off any longer.

Hermione would be right hacked off if I did something as old-fashioned as asking you for your permission. I'd probably be setting myself up for a lecture about how I wasn't respecting her independence or somesuch, and I'd probably deserve it.

Even so, it doesn't seem right for a bloke to do something as big as proposing marriage to a girl without talking to her father about it first.

Sir, I know all I can offer you are words, but I want you to know that I don't take the idea of marriage lightly. If Hermione says yes, I'll be thrilled, of course, but I'm pretty sure I'll also be a bit staggered by it, too. It's a big responsibility, after all. I also know you're bound to have worries. We *are* young, it's true, but I think the war has matured us both — and that's putting it mildly. And you have big dreams for your daughter, as you should. Hermione is ruddy amazing, and I'll do whatever I can to help her become the mind-boggling, world-changing arse-kicker she's meant to be.

Mostly, all I really want is for Hermione to be happy. If she lets me, I'll spend my life trying to make that happen. I'd feel better about that mission, however, if you and I were sorted. Like I said, Hermione would probably brain me if I asked your permission, but I would feel a lot better if I had your blessing. And if I can't have your blessing, then I suppose it's only fair to hear you out and know what your objections are, so I can try to fix whatever's wrong. At the very least, I reckoned you deserve a heads-up that I'm about to ask your daughter this really big question. I know if I had a daughter, I'd bloody well want to know something like that.

I haven't mapped out all the details yet, but I think my first leave — at Halloween — is when I'll give it a bash. So there's time to talk this out by Owl Post before then. I know you likely haven't fannied about with international Owls before. The Owl that delivers this message will likely hang about and wait for you to write a response if you tell it to. (Don't feel weird about talking to Owls, by the way — they're dead intelligent creatures, and they'll understand every word you say.) Once you've written your response, clip it to the Owl's leg and tell it the message is bound for Ronald Weasley, British Auror Academy, St. Agnes Island, Isles of Scilly, U.K. It'll get to me, but there's usually a two or three day delay between Australia and Britain.

I'd ask you to give my best to Hermione and her Mum, but I reckon you'd rather keep this correspondence under wraps, wouldn't you. So I guess I'll just say good luck with the packing and I hope you and Hermione are enjoying your time together. I know it means a lot to her.

Sincerely,

Ron Weasley.

oooOOOooo

17 September 1998  
Yarranabbe Road  
Darling Point  
Sydney

Ron,

I admit, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your letter — not that your feelings for my daughter are unknown to me. Far from it. I simply didn't expect that you were planning to take things to the next level quite so soon.

You have unfortunately seen how short my fuse can be — and I confess that, when I read that you intend to pop the question to Hermione over the Halloween weekend, I did indeed lose the plot, at least for a short while.

That said, I haven't entirely forgotten what it is to be young, Ron. I was in quite a similar position to yours at one time, though I was a few years older. The point is, I know you care for Hermione — and that she returns those feelings. I'm hardly in a position to stand in your way, and I'm smarter than to attempt to stand in hers. Therefore, all I can rightly do is share my concerns and hope that you will heed them.

I am, of course, concerned that you are both quite young to be taking this step.

It isn't lost on me that people in the wizarding world tend to marry earlier than we non-wizards do, and Hermione points out that wizarding marriages tend to be durable ones, in part because of the magic involved. Your own parents are certainly a testament to the lasting power of wizarding vows. I take some comfort in Hermione's general assurances on the subject of wizarding marriage (though I don't want to give you the impression that she expects a proposal — I'm quite sure she doesn't). She tells me that, if a witch and wizard aren't meant to be married, then the magic involved in the bonding ceremony simply doesn't stick. I will therefore have to place my trust in the bonding ceremony itself and hope for the best. As you may learn yourself someday if you are ever so lucky to become a father, hoping for the best is sometimes all that there is for it — parenthood is life's greatest leap of faith.

You'll notice that I am operating on the assumption that if you ask Hermione to marry you, she will say yes, because I am not pigheaded enough to attempt to fool myself on this point.

All I would ask is that you make good on your promise to keep her happiness uppermost in your mind as the two of you plan your future together. You have demonstrated through words and actions that Hermione is important to you. I can only ask you to multiply that feeling by a factor of, say, ten to imagine how precious she is to *me.* She is my child — and my only one, at that — and from the moment I was aware that she was on her way, her well-being has been my primary goal in life. Some day you'll understand what I mean.

Until then, I hope you will put up with me when I ask you to lay out your plans and goals. Please write and set my mind to rest on some key matters — particularly financial.

Very truly,

Hugh Granger.

P.S. — I managed to keep your news from Eleanor and I plan to continue doing so. My wife and Hermione are quite close, as you know, and I imagine that, if she knew your intentions, it would be supremely difficult for Eleanor not to spoil your surprise. Also, in light of your news, it seems ridiculous to have you continue to call me Mr. Granger. Call me Hugh from now on, won't you?

oooOOOooo

20 September 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Dear Hugh,

It's going to take me a while to get used to calling you anything but "Mr. Granger."

Anyway, I'm sorry if my letter threw you for a loop, but I reckoned it was best to let you know sooner rather than later. You're right to ask about plans and goals, sir. I have been thinking a lot about those things myself — that is, when I'm not in training, which currently takes up most of my waking hours.

Barring some unforeseen cock-up, I expect to graduate from Auror Academy here at St. Agnes at Christmastime. After that, qualified graduates move on to advanced training at the Corps' Camden facility. There are no guarantees about this — in fact, about half of the recruits usually drop out or get cut before the St. Agnes session ends. That said, the Auror Academy chiefs seem to put a lot of stock in scoring — written tests, physical tests, field tests, the works — and I reckon it's not likely that I'll be cut. That's because I currently have the highest total score and have done since about the second week. (That said, I should note that Harry is a close No. 2. His Defensive scores are a bit higher than mine, and he beats me in Dueling. But I seem to do better in a lot of the physical stuff — probably just because I'm bigger than he is, really — and Tactics is sort of a natural for me, I guess, because I'm kind of good at chess. So there's that.)

The good news about Camden is that, unlike St. Agnes, recruits don't have to live on campus. No more dormitories, no more cafeterias. Looking forward to that. Advanced training lasts until May. Again, there are no guaranteed outcomes at Camden. We're warned that a quarter of the recruiting class typically gets the ax during this part of the training — sometimes as much as half the class. That said, the head of the Auror Corps, Bernard Brocklehurst, recently talked privately with me and Harry about officer training after Camden — which you have to be invited to take, I'm told — so, well, it's hard to judge our chances. Though I can't imagine Brocklehurst would take the trouble to mention it to us if we were total long-shots. Well, there's not much to do about that right now, is there. I reckon all I can do is keep my nose to the grindstone here at St. Agnes and let the rest work itself out in due time.

If you're surprised that I'm doing reasonably well at St. Agnes, you wouldn't be the only one. Let's face it: As a Hogwarts student, I hardly set the world on fire. I held my own, got some decent OWLs, and didn't totally embarrass myself, but I'm nothing compared to Hermione academically speaking. I figure the difference has something to do with the war — doing well matters more to me now than it did before — and, well, the stuff I'm learning now feels like it'll be dead useful. Lives — like, mainly, Hermione's — could depend on me getting these things right. Sort of makes it easier to sit up and pay attention when you look at it all in that light. Voldemort may be dead and gone, but I'm sorry to say some of his followers and sympathizers remain — and I won't rest until every last one of them is locked up and no longer a threat to the people I care about most.

You might wonder why I even want to be an Auror at all, and I wouldn't blame you for wondering. It's a difficult job, and it can be dangerous, too. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an Auror because it seemed like it would be a monumentally cool adventure. Then the war happened, of course, and that changed everything for me. Now I just want to help make things right in the world, to make it safer — first, for Hermione, then for my family, which includes Harry and now you and Mrs. Granger, then for my friends and I guess the wizarding world in general, and finally for my kids. Not that they're on the horizon — I don't mean to scare you — but, you know, eventually I hope to have a few, and I want them to live in a safe world, or at least a safer world than the one I grew up in. I don't mean to sound melodramatic — I had a great childhood and I'm damned lucky — but it might have been nice to go to Hogwarts and have my biggest worry be something like, say, passing my Potions final rather than having to protect my best friend from a homicidal maniac and his buddies.

You asked about money, and I can honestly say for the first time in my life that I actually have some. Well, quite a lot, actually. More than I ever dreamed I'd have. You don't have to worry that I'm going to run around and blow it all — I know what it is *not* to have much money, and I never want to experience that again.

I should note that Aurors are paid exceptionally well. Not enough to get rich, mind, but well enough. But there's more to the financial picture than that.

You might know — but, then again, you might not — that Harry, Hermione and I have been receiving all sorts of awards and whatnot from wizarding governments all over the world since the war ended, not that we expected anything of the sort. The biggest surprise, at least to me, is that most of these honors come with buckets of money. Ruddy amazing, that. The British Ministry's Order of Merlin came with a 25,000 galleon honorarium for each of us, which in and of itself would be nearly enough to set a bloke up for life if he was to mind his knuts and sickles. It's a bit awkward to talk about money, but you're entitled to know. The American Department of Magic awarded us the Salem Prize, which comes with 10,000 Staters apiece. Germany gave us the Vaettir's Crown and 5,000 ducats each. We got the Prix de Sorcier from the French ministry, plus 3,000 livres. And there's more coming in from Japan, Norway, Brazil, Canada, Spain, Italy, Turkey, Iran — the list goes on. Don't ask me what any of these foreign wizarding currencies equal in British muggle pounds — I have no blooming idea. I just know my portion adds up to an awful lot — enough to provide a safety net for the future for Hermione and me, and what's mine is hers as far as I'm concerned. (Hermione has received the same amounts, but that's for her to do with as she pleases. I have enough now to take care of both of us, especially since the only things I want in life — the only things you can buy, that is — would be a nice cottage somewhere, a new wizarding chess set, a competition-grade broom and maybe season's tickets to the Chudley Cannons.)

All of which is to say that, though I would never have expected it, I'm more or less sorted when it comes to money. And I understand why you would ask. If she says yes (and I'm not quite as confident about that as you are), then it will be my responsibility to take care of her and any kids that may come along at some point down the road. Hermione would likely hex me for saying so — and you for expecting it — because Merlin knows she's more than capable of taking care of herself. If the pattern of our friendship is any guide, Hermione and I are likely to always be more or less equal partners in pretty much everything. Well, she's loads better than me at most things, but there are one or two things I have been able to do for her over time — mainly, keeping her from working herself to death. And even if she thinks I'm backwards for thinking so, I believe looking after her is going to be my job — if she lets me — and that includes making sure there's enough money to keep a roof over her head and keep her fed. That's not the only thing, of course, but it's a big thing and I think I can manage it. I hope you agree.

Well, I hope I have been able to put your mind to rest on at least a few points. I'm willing to answer any other questions you may have, sir. I'm sure you won't be shy about asking if there's anything else you'd like to know. Fire away.

Sincerely,

Ron.

P.S. — I hope you all had a great time celebrating Hermione's birthday last night. Wish I could have been there with you. Though I suppose I should be happy that you are at least back in the U.K. as of today. Owl delivery should be much faster now.

oooOOOooo

23 September 1998  
Sedley Taylor Road  
Cambridge

Ron,

We did indeed have a lovely birthday dinner for Hermione on our last night in Australia. Though there are things I will miss about Sydney, I must confess it's good to be home. The Ministry has done an excellent job in helping us with the transition. I must say, I continue to be amazed at the way everyone seems to roll out the red carpet for Hermione. It seems you three are indeed considered heroes in Britain as well as abroad, and I don't mind saying I'm proud of you all.

I appreciate the candor you displayed in your last letter. It's a father's duty to pry into such matters on his daughter's behalf, I'm afraid, but I was pleased that you offered the information I sought with such openness.

If you will indulge me, I would like now to ask for your thoughts as they relate to Hermione's professional future. I don't need to tell you how extraordinarily gifted she is. Now that you have addressed my worries regarding finances, my mind turns to Hermione's ambitions and my concern that marriage and perhaps children might impede her advancement. I hope you understand, Ron, that I mean no personal disrespect by raising these questions. I simply want to be sure that you have considered all the possible angles before taking this very important step.

Sincerely,

Hugh.

P.S. — You mentioned wizard chess in your last letter. Is that quite the same as muggle chess? I played a fair bit of chess in my day back at university — and I don't mind saying I wasn't half bad. Have you read Lasker's Manual? It's bloody good.

oooOOOooo

24 September 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Hugh,

What I want more than anything, sir, is for your daughter to be safe and happy. I am hoping she'll decide she can be happy with *me* but, even if she has other ideas, I could never wish anything less for her than total happiness. I'm no saint — I'll be gutted if she says no — but I''d try to get over it eventually and would hope, in my heart of hearts, that she goes on to be everything she wants to be, even if she chooses to spend her life with somebody else.

These may sound like puffy promises, but they're not. I know they're not because, frankly, Hermione and I have both stared death in the face more than once, and there were times, during the worst of the war, when I was pretty sure we weren't going to make it. Stuff like that can change a person, I think.

When I was younger, I could be an insensitive prat sometimes — Hermione was never shy about telling me so. I wasn't always the most observant bloke around, I thought a lot about myself and my own needs, and I was kind of a dope about stuff like feelings. But then, Dumbledore died and the fight against Voldemort got intense, and I had to grow up fast. Well, all three of us did. Dumbledore set a task for us — a task that looked pretty damned impossible sometimes — and all three of us knew there was a good chance we wouldn't survive to see it completed. I'm sure it's upsetting to hear this now, Hugh, especially since you weren't in a position to do anything about it. But that's the way it was.

At times when the shit was really hitting the fan (sorry), I prayed Hermione and Harry could make it out alive even if I couldn't. I always knew it was crucial for Harry to live, of course, because defeating Voldemort wasn't possible without Harry. And it was essential that Hermione survive as well, because Harry wasn't likely to succeed if he didn't have Hermione's smarts to guide him. Me, I always reckoned I came in handy, but I had a gut feeling that I was there mainly to look after the other two, to help them figure out the magical world since neither of them were raised in it, and to put myself between them and the enemy if it came to that. That makes me sound braver than I really was — I didn't *want* to die, but I knew I might have to, and I could force myself to live with it only if I thought about what the future would be like for my friends and family without Voldemort.

I bring this up only to say that I've had practice when it comes to looking out for Hermione, and I reckon all the risks we took to survive the war would be wasted if she didn't end up doing all the jaw-dropping things she's capable of doing. I honestly think Hermione could wind up as Minister for Magic someday, Hugh — though that depends on if she really wanted to go that route. I'm not sure politics would really make her happy — she's a truth-teller at heart. The point is, she can do any ruddy thing she sets her mind to. I wouldn't want to let anything stand in the way of that.

I hope I've answered your question, sir. I'm ready to answer any others you may have.

Welcome back to Britain…

Ron.

P.S. — I didn't know you were serious about chess, too. Honestly, sir, I've never read a chess book in my life, but I'm willing to start. I'll pick up Lasker as soon as I can. Thanks.

oooOOOooo

30 September 1998  
Sedley Taylor Road  
Cambridge

Ron,

I'm sorry for the delay in responding to your last letter. I have to admit it took me a day or two to absorb everything you had to say in it. I know, obviously, that you, Hermione and Harry survived the war, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear how close we came to losing one or all of you. I know it's a bit ridiculous that your stories, even told in retrospect, rattled me so much. But they did — and they do. Hermione has told me a fair bit about the struggle, though I've always been quite sure she's left out major portions of it. I thank you for your honesty about what happened and the dangers you endured — and I know it can't be easy to have to dredge it up just for my sake.

Ron, I wish I could say how much it means to me that you were willing to put yourself in harm's way for my daughter's sake, but I'm afraid there's no way to express it in words.

My daughter is more precious to me than anything, Ron — I suppose I'm like most fathers in that regard — but my circumstances are a bit different in that I had to give her up so early, and to a world I could not be a part of and could never hope to understand. The breach has been painful at times, more painful than I can say. But it helps somehow to know, even after the fact, that you were there with her in the good and the bad times. It's a comfort to know that you'll be there for her in the future as well.

And I do believe you will be there, son, because I have little doubt Hermione will accept your offer. It's obvious that she misses you terribly. My daughter is an intelligent girl, and she also happens to be an excellent judge of character. She will accept your proposal, and her father will be glad of it.

Hugh.

P.S. — Have you picked up Lasker yet? If so, pay special attention to the chapter on opening gambits. I'd like to know your thoughts on leading with the bishop's pawn.

oooOOOooo

2 October 1998  
St. Agnes Island

Hugh,

I wish I shared your confidence. I'll try to remember your words when the time comes, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to be a nervous wreck until I hear Hermione's answer.

I love her, sir, more than I can say. I only hope she'll say yes.

As for tales of the war, I'm willing to tell you anything you need to know — though I'd also understand if there were things you'd rather not know. But before I let you imagine that I spent the last few years rescuing Hermione as if she were some sort of damsel in distress, I should point out that I owe my life to Hermione's quick thinking and amazing bravery several times over. Your daughter is a badass, sir, and you might as well know it. She'd make a hell of an Auror — though, thank Merlin, she never showed much interest. If she had, I'd probably never get a wink of sleep.

And about the divide between the wizarding and the muggle worlds, I hope you know how important you and Mrs. Granger are to Hermione. And what's important to Hermione is important to me. She loves you both, and there's no reason she can't live happily in both worlds.

Finally, yes, I Owled Flourish & Blott's and ordered a copy of Lasker, which landed a few days ago, and yeah, it's smashing. I shouldn't admit this because it'll give you an advantage when we finally play one another — and I hope we will — but I usually like to open with the knight's pawn because it gives me a chance to go deep with my bishop early in the game if I have to. But I'm going to study the knight's moves in Lasker and will see what happens. When we meet across the chessboard, please forget you read this.

I'm heading into a few weeks of heavy field training before my leave, so I might not be able to write as frequently as I have done these past few weeks. But I do like hearing from you, so let's keep writing, yeah?

Ron.

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — I know I marked this story as "Complete" earlier this week, but I just couldn't resist one reader's request to share the letters between Ron and Hugh. I hope you enjoyed them, GinLoran!_

 _As always, thanks for reading, and please share your thoughts!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._

 _P.S. — I'm probably going to go back to the drawing board on "A Dream Goes On Forever" next. Angst is a challenge for me — I'm open to your ideas! Meanwhile, if you need another Romione read to occupy your time, why not check out one of my other fics, "One Punch: A History" ? I was looking at traffic stats today and realizing that it hasn't gotten as many reads as some of my other stuff. I'd be honored if you'd check it out!_


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